


The Fire's Out (But Still It Burns)

by silver_bubbles



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Homeless Peter Parker, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, I tried to be funny, NOT STARKER - Freeform, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Not Infinity War (Part 1) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Police Brutality, Trust Issues, Whump, but i also tried to make people cry, handwavy knowledge of medical procedures, shameless whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19707424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_bubbles/pseuds/silver_bubbles
Summary: Early December in New York City is brutal. With temperatures hovering in the low fifties and mid-forties, there isn't much wiggle room- you either have what you need or you don't.Peter falls somewhere in the second category.He's made a list of what he has, keeps it zipped up in his old backpack to make sure he hasn't lost anything important. It isn't long: a carefully folded wad of cash in the bottom of his bag, hidden away to make sure nobody else can find it; three granola bars for emergencies; ibuprofen (fighting crime isn't safe, kids); his Spider-Man suit (that's what he's decided to call himself); a pair of extra socks; his pictures.That's it. Everything Peter owns fits in one bag.That's his lot in life.Pathetic.(In which May and Ben died in tragic circumstances, leaving a fifteen-year-old Peter Parker to fend for himself. Enter Tony Stark: genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist, and- apparently- Spider-dad.)





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going out on a limb here and trying for some irondad+spiderson angst. Yay me. After Endgame, I figured we could all use a bit of good hurt/comfort, so here I am, trying to give it to you.
> 
> I've written a good bit of fanfiction, but this is my first fic containing only canon characters, so I would love some constructive criticism. I'll be posting warnings before each chapter to make sure everyone's comfortable- read safe, read happy. Make sure you're making good decisions for yourselves!
> 
> Tony's going to make his appearance in a few chapters (3 or 4, probably) because I need to get some good angst and whump in before the comfort comes. This fic's going to be around ten chapters, maybe a bit more. Chapters will normally be longer than this one.
> 
> Warnings: death, blood, a bit of sickness (Peter gets bitten by the spider), angst

Peter Parker's five years old when he decides that when he grows up, he's going to be a policeman. May and Ben, newly adoptive parents (legal guardians, they'll say to correct their friends gently, even though they know they think of him as their kid) think it's adorable, like all parents do. They buy him a blue hat and a shiny plastic badge to complete his costume, made up of his favorite pair of blue winter pajamas, and Peter runs around in his new outfit for three months.

The pretend-play ends when he hits pre-k, because "Costumes aren't allowed at school, Peter". May promises him that he can wear it when he gets home every day, though, so it really isn't that awful. Peter can deal.

He's seven years old when his best friend, a little kid called Miles, tells him that his dad's part of the police and that sometimes, he gets hurt. Peter knows about getting hurt- scraped knees are a regular part of recess, after all, especially when their playground is a concrete parking lot and he keeps getting pushed by Flash- but that's the extent of his knowledge.

Wait. That's not right.

The extent of his knowledge is that sometimes, when somebody gets really, really hurt, they go somewhere else. May calls it heaven. Ben tells her that it's not right to sugarcoat things (Peter doesn't really know what that means) and that it's called 'dying', and that 'dying' is when you go to sleep and you don't wake up. Ever.

Peter knows that that's what happened to his parents.

He knows that, eventually, it's going to happen again. He just doesn't know how soon.

All talk of injury and death aside, when Peter learns that Miles' dad gets hurt when he's working, he decides that he doesn't really want to be a policeman anymore. It seems like too much of a risk, and a little kid who cries at bloody elbows and lost teeth has no business playing the hero. So he gives up on that dream and finds a new passion- photography- and, just like that, Peter forgets about the two-year stint that was his obsession with joining the NYPD.

When he's nine and Miles is ten, something happens to Miles' father. He won't talk about it- never does, really- but Peter, judging from Miles' watery eyes, guesses that it's bad. The Morales family moves away and Peter never sees them again and, when things get to be too much for him to process, he forgets about them. After all, he has bigger things to deal with now. Worse things.

Terrifying things.

Peter is thirteen and entering what May calls his 'teenage phase' when, in a lapse of common sense, he hacks Ben's computer and goes through all of his files to try and find out about his parents. There isn't much to see, only a marriage certificate and a document stating that they used to work for someone called "Norman Osborn". He recognizes that name: Norman is the owner of Oscorp, one of the most forward-thinking tech-design places in the world (save Stark Industries, of course, but that doesn't matter).

Coincidentally, Oscorp's headquarters are in New York City, a single ten-minute train ride away from the Parker residence.

Peter knows he shouldn't, knows that it's technically illegal and he could get into some serious trouble. He knows May and Ben wouldn't approve, but he wants to know about what happened to his parents, and nobody will tell him.

He breaks into Oscorp, searches through a few labs in a desperate attempt to learn about his family, and almost dies when he gets bitten by a spider. It's an awful way to go out.

He spends the next five days curled up next to a toilet, vomiting his insides out and wondering how long it'll take for him to kick it. Probably not _that_ long, because every day it gets worse and May and Ben are panicking and Peter _knows_ that they can't afford the sort of medical care that he needs and his insurance probably isn't up to date. He bites his tongue and forces the pain down, doesn't let anyone know how much he hurts inside. Passes it off as a particularly bad strain of the stomach bug.

He pushes through and it pays off.

Three days after he declares himself better, Peter doesn't need his glasses or his inhaler. He's stronger- every bit of his body, even though he's as skinny as it gets, is corded with a layer of wiry muscle. He feels like he can _breathe_ , because finally, _finally_ , Peter isn't that nerdy kid in the back of the class who can't go on a spend-the-night because he's too much of a liability.

He's _strong_ now.

He's _proud_.

It doesn't last long. 

He knows something's wrong when, after he gets into a particularly bad fight with Ben over their financial status (neither Ben nor May will let him get a job to help pay the bills, no matter how much he insists), nausea hits him in the gut like a dodgeball. Ben's just stormed out of the apartment on a quick run to the convenience store down the street in an attempt to clear the air, leaving Peter alone while May works an extra shift at the hospital. 

Peter, feeling like he's about to vomit, throws open the door and races down the stairs and into the streets without bothering to lock up. He runs faster than he ever has before, pushing himself as hard as possible until his breaths are ragged and he can barely see, the glowing lights of the convenience store like beacons in the night. He's pushing it further, further, further, feeling like he's about to drop but not letting himself falter because _Ben is in trouble and something is wrong, wrong, wrong_ -

He skids to a stop and forces the door open. Gasps, pulls in a single breath, and _shouts_ Ben's name. Behind him, the little bell tinkles cheerfully.

There's a man standing in front of the cash register with a gun in his hand, scraggly blond hair poking out from underneath his stocking cap, staring at where Peter- this thirteen-year-old kid with wide eyes and a red face from running so fast- is watching him, mouth gaping open.

Ben is beside a young woman with wide eyes, probably the person who was working the register at the time. They're holding onto each other, knuckles white, staring down the barrel of death itself (a KEL-TEC handgun that looks like it's seen better days). Ben sees Peter walk in and he goes pale, moves a single hand in a desperate attempt to get him to _leave_.

Maybe it's just a nervous reaction. Maybe this was his plan all along. Either way, it doesn't matter- the man with the gun reacts, regardless of reason, by turning and readjusting to face Peter. The barrel of the gun is focused right between his eyes. One false move, one word, and Peter knows he's going to be dead.

Ben, the overprotective, loving, _amazing_ uncle that he is, doesn't hesitate.

He hurtles over the counter with a panicked shout, leaving the woman to cower behind it on her own, and _throws_ himself between the gun and his guilty, terrified, superpowered nephew.

Fingers squeeze the trigger, and it's all over. Peter's screaming, the woman's screaming, the man looks like he's about to faint, and Ben...

Ben is falling.

He hits the ground hard, legs crumbling under his body as his head cracks against the linoleum floor. Peter screams again, but he can't hear himself; everything is just a continuous wail in his ears because _Ben Ben Ben Ben **Ben**_.

There's blood on the tiles. Peter doesn't think- he throws a quick punch at the shooter's head, fist making contact just above the man's ear and knocking him out cleanly. The woman behind the counter is shakily dialing a number into her cell phone, something she should've done when someone with a _stocking cap_ came into her store at ten in the evening. And then she's shouting frantically into the receiver about a shooting and how someone's hurt and _there's a kid_ -

Faintly, Peter realizes that she's referring to him.

It doesn't matter.

He takes a shaking step forward. Falls to his knees. Warm liquid soaks through the knees of his old jeans and covers his hands. Seeps into the cuffs of his favorite flannel shirt. The white toes of his shoes are soaked in the stuff, turning them scarlet as the puddle beneath Peter's feet grows. He doesn't move to get out of it, just leans over- his hands slide around a bit, but _does it matter?_ \- and stares at Ben.

A crimson starburst spreads across his uncle's t-shirt, originating from a single hole on the left side of his chest. _Above his heart_ , Peter thinks, but it doesn't really register. He just... sits there, staring at Ben's rapidly paling face with an expression of confusion on his face.

Ben takes a deep, rattling breath and moves. It's just his hand, trailing through a lake of his own blood to take Peter's, already slick with the stuff. Peter doesn't react aside from tightening his fingers and tilting his head to one side. 

He's quiet when he speaks, and the way he sounds, Ben doesn't have much time left. Nevertheless, he steels himself- deep breath in, deep breath out, eyes open and already starting to glaze over. 

"You know what to do."

And that's it.

Peter's grown up in a poor neighborhood in New York City- he knows what death sounds like. What it looks like. Even what it smells like.

Looking down at Ben's dead brown eyes, the same color as Peter's, it all registers. He _screams, screams, screams,_ so loud that the neighbors come running to the front door to see what's going on. Even when somebody- ironically, it's a policewoman (young, dark skin, sad eyes)- places their hand on his shoulder and tries to comfort him, to pull him away, he doesn't stop. He screams, because right then, right there, in a crappy convenience store on the corner of Ingram Street in Queens, New York...

That's when Peter understands the meaning of real pain.

But that's not where it ends, no. Because what Ben said? That strikes him straight to the core, because he _doesn't_ know what to do. He's _thirteen_ _,_ for God's sake, he has no idea what the next step is. No, that's a job for the adults. That's what _Ben_ was supposed to do, what he had been doing since Peter's parents had died as a child.

But Ben's dead. So it doesn't really matter, Peter realizes, what he was supposed to do. Because he can't do it now. 

Peter is left with a devastated and widowed May, a halved income, and more responsibility on his shoulders than what most people have to take on in their entire lives. But, true to the Parker way, he takes it without complaining. He doesn't have a choice anymore.

There's one year between Ben's death and the next tragedy. During that year, Peter pulls himself together. The roll of toilet paper that he uses for tissues on the worst nights stays in his room, because May needs the real tissues- those tissues that they can't really afford on her salary- and Peter doesn't want her to know about the tears he sheds. He skips meals when he needs to, keeping the money May gives him for school lunches in his pocket for that night's dinner. Whatever he can scrounge out of dumpsters- clothes, food, school supplies, whatever- he does, so May won't have to work any extra shifts at the hospital. She's tired enough and if Peter can work a few extra hours at a gas station or a cafe, he'll do it without question.

May doesn't know what he does when he's not at the apartment or at school. In fact, she thinks that he _is_ at school- he tells her that the money he makes is from tutoring rich people's kids.

She doesn't know that when he tried to offer his services, he was shut down with little more than an offhand sneer and a smirk. He knows that if he told her, there would be a small Italian woman in the principal's office the next day, shouting him down about how her nephew deserved the work and, if Midtown High's students and parents won't respect them, she'll pull him out.

Peter thinks she should anyway, considering how expensive private schools are, but she won't entertain the thought.

So Peter's walking down the street, fourteen years old and _more_ than tired after the four-hour shift he just worked at the local coffee shop, but feeling good about the fifty dollars he made and knowing that he did more than enough to earn it. The owners of the shop, Kari and Ellie Richards, are more than generous with their money and their kindness (Peter knows he shouldn't be making as much as he is, but he's not about to argue). Sure, they think he's a bit older than he _actually_ is; he told them that he was three weeks away from turning eighteen and they had no problem hiring him. They _also_ think he's a college student- his excuse is early enrollment- trying to earn enough money for his school. They don't know about May or Ben or how Peter's a literal _fourteen-year-old_.

Does it matter?

There's a bit of a breeze fluttering down the street, sending orange leaves flying everywhere in a particularly fall-like fashion. Peter tucks his fists into the pockets of his jacket, courtesy of the Salvation Army in Jackson Heights (almost seven miles away from Jackson Heights, where Peter lives), and shivers. The precursors of winter have already popped up and he's not thrilled, because with winter comes cold weather, and with cold weather comes large heating bills. Peter's brought up this issue to May; she brushed him off and told him he shouldn't have to worry about things like that.

So he took an extra job for a few weeks to try and save up for it. May doesn't know about that one, either.

Peter's fine until he walks across the street two blocks before the apartment, raising a hand at a passing cab in thanks for not running him over. It's starting to get dark earlier, so he's paying more attention than usual- checking alleys before he walks past them, keeping one hand on his phone in case he needs to call the police that he used to want to join so desperately, always ready to break out the enhanced strength and do what needs to be done. 

But apparently he isn't paying _enough_ attention, and that's the only important thing.

The last time Peter had felt his sixth sense- what he's come to call his 'spidey sense' in honor of the spider that gave him his powers- was when he was nearly hit by a dump truck earlier that week. The familiar jolt hit his stomach like electricity, powerful and nerve-wracking (much more than it usually was) and he _immediately_ knows that something was wrong.

And, as usual, the first thing to come to mind is May.

Peter takes off running. He pushes past a pair of old women, accidentally knocking their knitting bags out of their hands and getting a burst of angry Russian in return. Normally, he would stop and help them. Try to fix it. Apologize.

But there's a stream of _May, May, May_ running through his head that feels all too similar to what he was feeling a year ago when Ben died, and he won't- can't- lose her. She's all he has left, and he knows it, no matter how much it hurts.

So he runs. And runs. And runs. Blows past the stop signs, past green lights and red lights and yellow lights until the world is just a blur of color and he feels like he might throw up. But, just like when he knew something had happened to Ben, he doesn't stop.

He pushes harder, and harder, and harder, until he doesn't know what's up or down, right or left.

Somehow, Peter makes it to 20 Ingram Street, the brick-faced apartment building that he and May ~~and Ben~~ have been residents of for as long as he can remember. He throws the door open and races up three flights of stairs, red-faced and panting, his dark hair flying around his face and obstructing his vision. People shout curses and reprimand him, but he ignores them all, rushes down the hallway, and _hurls_ himself at the door.

He bursts straight into his apartment- _he'll have to replace the hinges later, and his landlord's going to kill him_.

"May?" He asks, quiet at first. When there's no answer, he tries again. Louder. " _May?!_ _"_

Still nothing. This sends a jolt of panic down his spine, because May's shift ended an hour ago and she always calls him if she's going to be late. Peter bites his lip, pushes his hair out of his face, and steels himself.

Nothing can prepare him for what he sees when he walks into the kitchen. His backpack hits the floor with a _thud_ , all but forgotten.

He should've known.

May's on the kitchen floor, lying on her back with her dark hair thrown over her face. Her eyes are closed, and for a second, Peter thinks that she could be asleep. But he knows better, because they're _never_ just asleep.

There's a spatula on the floor, covered with what looks like spaghetti sauce. May must've been making dinner when whatever happened... happened. Peter looks around slowly (just like last time, it isn't registering), wondering if she bothered to turn off the stove before she fell or if he should check.

She probably didn't.

"May?" Peter asks again, almost a whisper. "May, are you asleep?"

Idiot. When people are asleep, they're still breathing, and May's chest isn't moving.

_May's chest isn't moving_. 

He chokes out a sob and rushes across the small kitchen, skidding to a stop and hitting his knees so hard he thinks he might've broken something. Everything in his body is beating (his heart, his blood, his brain) at once, syncing up like a bad iPhone update and leaving him a shaking mess. 

Peter places a hand on May's forehead and gently brushes her hair out of her face. _She's still warm_ , he thinks, allowing the small hope to take him away. 

But, when he moves his hand to the pulse point on her neck, there's nothing there.

May is gone, just like Ben. Just like Peter's parents.

He doesn't give himself time to mourn. He never does. Peter's heard horror stories from kids from school about foster homes and Child Protective Services and now, however much it might pain him to admit it, he's an orphan. At their mercy, really. He knows that orphanages and temporary homes aren't an option for someone like him, especially not with his powers.

So, as usual, Peter Parker takes care of himself.

He takes five minutes to pack a bag, retrieving his backpack from the kitchen doorway before rushing to his bedroom and closing the door. Locks it, breaks the handle, and sticks a chair against the wall for good measure, just to make sure nobody will be able to get in. 

There's a basket of clean clothes on the bottom bunk- if that doesn't make him want to vomit, nothing will. Peter pushes the sickness down, takes a few deep breaths, and dumps his schoolbooks out on his bed before replacing them with the warmest clothes he can find- a few pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, eight pairs of socks, extra underwear- and two of his trademark flannel shirts. By the time he finishes, the largest pocket is full to the brim and looks like it might burst.

He isn't done. A pair of energy bars take up one side pocket; his half-empty water bottle from three days ago takes the other. A portable phone charger, not that it'll matter, is stuffed in the frontmost pocket along with a pair of pencils and his favorite book.

On second thought, Peter takes the book out and leaves it on his bedside table, opting for a hairbrush, his toothbrush, and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste instead. He has priorities, after all, and surviving is at the top of the list.

The last thing that Peter takes is his wallet (stuffed with every bit of cash and change he could scrounge up. No credit card- it didn't have much money on it, anyway. The front slot is filled with card-sized photo cutouts (May, Ben, and an old picture of Peter with his mother and father). He fingers his debit card- fifty dollars is nothing to scoff at, but cards can be traced and he doesn't want to be found.

He'll ditch it when he's gotten what he wants.

Finally, Peter takes out his phone and calls 911 with shaking hands. The person who picks up is a woman, and she sounds _bored as hell_ , but he couldn't be happier to hear her voice.

Someone has to take care of May, after all.

"Nine-one-one, what's the nature of your emergency?" She asks. 

"Ah- yeah, hey, I think my Aunt might be sick and I don't know what to do." Peter curses the awkward inflection in his voice, but it doesn't really matter. She probably doesn't care. "She's not breathing and I don't know when it happened."

"So she's unconscious?"

"Er- yes, she's unconscious. I came home from work and..." So maybe telling the officers that he had a job wasn't the best idea. "I mean I-"

"Please state your name and address."

Peter hesitates. He could hang up, but... no. Man up, Parker. "P-Peter Parker, Twenty Ingram Street? It's in Queens? My aunt's name is May Parker."

"We'll send an officer out to your location, Mr. Parker. Hang tight."

Funny that they think he's actually going to stay. Peter murmurs an affirmative, waits for the telltale _beep_ that means the officer's hung up on him, and turns his phone off before placing it on the covers of his bed.

He doesn't know if they can track him using it. He's not taking any chances.

Peter does one last scan of the apartment- his room, with dorky science posters hanging from every tangible surface and his half-finished LEGO Death Star sitting on the dresser (looks like Ned's going to have to do the rest on his own); the kitchen, with spaghetti sauce all over the floor and May next to the oven. He tilts her glasses back down onto her nose- they had slipped up to her forehead- and presses his fingers to his lips before placing them on her forehead.

"Bye, May," he says quietly. The sirens are outside, insanely loud, and he knows that he has to hurry if he doesn't want to get caught. Red and blue lights shine through the windows. 

"I'm sorry I couldn't do better."

And then, without a second glance, he opens the kitchen window and climbs over the sill. Falls into a half-empty dumpster. Runs.

Runs.

It's not like he's good at anything else.


	2. Did You Lose What Won't Return?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets into a schedule, reunites with a 'friend', finds a new hoodie, and breaks into his old school. Good times, good times.
> 
> Warnings: an attempted mugging, a bit of violence, and some angst? not heavy or anything, but it's still there.
> 
> (Chapter title from Flares by The Script)

**One month later:**

"Morning, Peter!" Kari grins and tosses a green apron across the counter, her dark hair falling in feathery strands around her face. Peter catches it without looking up, adjusting his backpack straps carefully before grinning back and raising a hand in greeting.

"Hey, Kari. Morning."

There's a bright ray of sunshine filtering through the clean windows at the front of the cafe, illuminating a dozen or so circular tables ringed by metal chairs. The two bar-style counters against the front have already been cleaned off- there's a bottle of Windex on top of one of the stools and a little pile of used paper towels on top of the other.

Peter drops his backpack behind the main counter for safekeeping, dons his apron, and gets to work without another word. He keeps himself busy, as usual, bustling around the unopened cafe (Taste of Heaven is what Ellie named it. Kari thinks the name is dumb, but she's not about to argue). Towels in the trash can, tables wiped down, cleaning supplies stowed away under the back sink.

This is the first thing that Peter has learned: he has to keep himself busy, because if he doesn't, he'll go insane. 

So that's what he does. After he took his money out of his bank account and ditched an empty debit card at a random bus stop, Peter got his priorities straight. He talked to Kari and Ellie about lengthening his shifts, pulled himself out of Midtown (it had taken some serious hacking, but after a week of using library computers and staying until the doors closed and he was forced to leave, Peter had managed to erase himself completely from their records), and quit all of his other jobs. 

He'd told Ellie that something had come up and he had dropped out of college. She had barely blinked.

Shifts run from eight in the morning to five in the evening. Eight bucks an hour, seventy-two bucks a day, to put toward food, clothing, necessities. Peter knows that he's too young to rent an apartment, no matter how shitty it is, because CPS will snap him up and then it'll all be over.

So he just... he just keeps going.

Ellie and Kari, the perfect couple (they're not planning on getting married, but they can't lie about how committed they are), are the sole owners of Taste of Heaven coffee shop and pastries, located on Brooke Street in Manhattan. Peter doesn't know much about them, even though he's been one of their three employees for over a year. 

They, in turn, don't pry. He can tell that Ellie- redheaded, fiery, and the more observant of the two- has some sort of suspicion about him from the way she looks at him sometimes. Pity, concern, and understanding are her three favorite faces to pull. Honestly, Peter's surprised that Kari hasn't figured something out, too, because he doesn't look eighteen in the least bit and he can tell that he's started to lose weight.

Living on the streets takes its toll. 

The shop opens at eight-thirty. Peter takes his usual spot behind the counter, puts on a smile, and takes orders like a boss. A flood of customers pours through the door the minute Kari opens it, happy and bursting with life, and there are thirty minutes where he can forget all his problems- the pain, the hunger, the constant fear for his belongings and life- and fall into repetition.

In his year at Taste of Heaven, Peter has become one of the customers' favorites. He always smiles, even though it's forced, and never gets an order wrong. Ellie likes to brag on him ("Our wonder kid," she'll say proudly, ruffling his fluffy hair with a grin and snorting when he reaches up to push her away).

Peter smiles at a dark-haired woman dressed in her usual workout clothes. She comes by three times a week (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, because she has to go to work early on Tuesdays and Thursdays).

"The regular?" He asks, already knowing the answer.

She nods, returns his smile, and sits down at one of the smaller tables by the wall. Peter turns to Ellie. "Espresso with low-fat milk and a sesame seed bagel for the lady by the wall." She nods, sets to work, and Peter takes the next customer's order.

This is what his life consists of now.

It takes an hour or so for the initial rush to peter out, leaving the occasional teenager to wander through the door, tiredly order a double shot of espresso, and wander out again. Kari and Ellie take the time to replenish their supply of straight coffee (Ellie gets a kick out of that name, too, but for another reason) while Peter stacks up a fresh batch of chocolate-chip cookies and replaces the breakfast menu with their lunch specials.

Another few hours pass. The two women coax him into a game of Uno; he loses miserably. Kari beats Ellie and gloats for what seems like forever before the next rush starts, and they settle back into their places again to repeat the process all over again.

This time, Peter works the kitchen. He's not a great baker- he's known that since he and May tried to make a walnut date loaf and he managed to mess it up before they even started- but Kari, their resident expert, teaches him a bit and he learns that, maybe, he might not be as bad as he thought he was. A fresh loaf of bread makes it out of the oven without burning.

Job well done, then.

Peter can tell he's getting hungry when the smell of peppermint tea, wafting into the kitchen from the adjoining room, makes his stomach rumble. He's always _hated_ peppermint (not always. Since he was bitten, really, but he can't figure out why) and if that makes him hungry, well... he needs to eat. He didn't have dinner the night before, so the last thing he had was a leftover bagel taken from the display case when Ellie wasn't looking.

He knows she saw him take it. She always chooses to turn a blind eye, and for that, he'll always be grateful.

Ellie herself comes into the kitchen about ten minutes later. Peter looks up from where he was working on zesting an orange, his eyebrows shooting up as he tries to brush flour from his apron. 

She closes the door quietly, brushes a splotch of cinnamon from above her left eye, and tosses his backpack across the room.

"We're closing up shop for today," Ellie says briskly. "Rush hour's over and Kari didn't sleep well, so I'm calling it. Your money's in the envelope in the side pocket."

Peter catches his bag, nods, and checks the pocket. As promised, there's a white envelope in the right picket, just above his extra cash. The whole 'closing early' thing isn't a surprise; Kari has some sort of anxiety and they make more than enough money to shut down from time to time.

"Thanks. Do you need any help closing up?"

She shakes her head and steps aside to let him out. Shoots him a warm smile. Pats him on the back.

"I think Kari and I are good for today, Pete. Nice job. See you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow." Peter nods, brushes past her and after saying good-bye to Kari, blew through the front door without another word.

There's an October breeze blowing down the street when he steps out, chilly and just cold enough for it to be a bit too much. Goldenrod leaves mixed with scarlet and orange blow down the sidewalk, rustling under his feet every time he puts them down. He shivers and tucks his neck down so that it's stuck into the collar of his windbreaker, wraps an arm securely around the strap of his bag, and kept walking.

The bodega on the corner of Third and Markson is, as usual, bustling with activity. Peter knows he doesn't _quite_ fit in with the masses- anyone can tell that he's a bit too young to be walking around on his own, and the state of his clothes isn't exactly stellar- but he's able to slip between a pair of businessmen with identical sunglasses and makes his way into Delmar's Deli-Grocery.

Delmar's standing behind the cash register, handing a woman with a screaming kid her change while she tries to quiet him down. The look on his face is just about the funniest thing Peter's ever seen- he seems like he's about to explode.

Peter watches, a small smile tugging at his lips, and waits for the woman to move away from the register. He takes her place once she's finished and leans in, one elbow on the counter, waiting for Delmar to turn around and see him.

The older man swivels with a sandwich in one hand and a few quarters in the other. When he sees Peter, his eyes light up- even though he tries to hide it, Peter knows Delmar likes him.

"No elbows on my counter, kid," he grouches. One hand slips over and drops a pair of coins next to Peter's. He takes them gratefully and puts them in his pocket (laundry money for later) without moving his elbow. "The usual?"

Peter nods eagerly. Delmar clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and turns to shout at one of his employees. "Number five with pickles!"

"And can he squish it down? Really flat, please."

He nods and repeats Peter's request before tossing him a bag of chips and a water bottle.

"On the house."

Peter's stomach drops. "No, no, I can't take that! I'll pay, just gimme a second-"

"You're not paying, kid. Come on, take it."

"But Mr. Delmar-"

"Take it." Delmar pushes the chips and water across the counter, raises his eyebrows. "You're too skinny, anyway. Go ahead."

Peter wants to protest more, wants to tell him that he can't take part of this guy's livelihood (even though it probably costs a collective three dollars and Delmar makes more than enough), but he knows that there's no use in arguing. He sighs and takes the food, shoving it into his backpack.

He's pretty sure Delmar has some sort of idea about how he lives, just like Ellie. After all, Peter's been coming to this place before May... before May died, and there's been enough of a physical and emotional change for anyone to notice. 

Delmar's gotten into the habit of giving him free food left and right. Peter appreciates it, sure, but if nobody else gets free food, why should he? After all, he's not the only homeless kid in New York City. He's not special (well, maybe a _little_ bit special, but that's just because of his enhanced strength and off-the-charts metabolism. He can't pretend that Delmar's generosity hasn't saved his life on multiple occasions, especially when his new powers meant that he had to eat more than an average teenager and he doesn't exactly have access to that kind of food).

So he just nods again, thanks him tiredly, and stands there as he waits for his sandwich to be finished. Delmar tries for some small talk ("So, how's that aunt of yours?"). Peter ignores the stinging in his eyes and the pain in his chest at the mention of her name, pushes out another smile, and tells her that she's good. She's taken up knitting. The book club is reading _War and Peace_.

Lying has become his initial reaction to everything, and if that doesn't scare him, nothing will. He's gotten- it makes him want to vomit up everything in his stomach, because it's _so wrong_ \- he's gotten _good at it_.

Delmar has no idea what he's going when he says, " _Ella es una mujer Italiana muy atractiva."_

He doesn't know that Peter speaks Spanish or that every word he says feels like a knife stabbing into his back and chest. He doesn't know how much it hurts for Peter to even _hear_ her name, because it's only been a month and he left without arranging a funeral or making sure the police would take care of her.

May didn't have anybody to go to her funeral.

Peter doesn't let him see how he feels. He pushes the pain down, just like he's always done, and says, " _Como esta tu hija?"_ with a little grin.

Delmar's smile drops. He doesn't reply, just drops a sandwich wrapped in parchment onto the counter and sticks his hand out.

"You sass off like that, you don't get any more free handouts. Got it?"

Peter doesn't let the fear he feels at the prospect of losing his only source of food show on his face. He just laughs quietly, shakes his head, and takes the sandwich. "Thanks, Mr. Delmar. I really appreciate it."

Delmar shrugs his shoulders at another employee, like 'what can you do?'. He reaches across the counter to pat Peter on the shoulder and jerks his head at the door.

"You're holdin' up the line. Head on out."

Sandwich in hand, Peter heads toward the door with another thank you. He pretends not to catch Delmar's whispered "Stay safe, kid," and tries to control his smile as he swings out into the busy streets yet again.

**_______________**

Peter's walking down the street when he hears it: a shrill scream, carrying across the buildings and echoing through alleys and streets. It's full of fear and panic- somebody is seriously in trouble, and she sounds like she might be hurt.

He's off before he knows it. The street is relatively empty, with three or four pedestrians crossing the street ahead and a bunch of teenagers hanging out on a street corner. Nobody really reacts to the scream, which makes Peter want to scream (he would if he wasn't so busy worrying).

He just ignores them and focuses on the sound of his feet pounding against concrete. Beating a steady rhythm- left, right, left, right, leftrightleftrightleftright- until he can barely differentiate between the two, because it doesn't matter.

What matters is the woman who just screamed again. This time, there are tears mixed into her voice, wet and pained as she _sobs_. Peter takes a deep breath without stopping to try and calm his beating heart, even though it doesn't do much. He's running faster than he should be, even for an enhanced, and he knows he needs to stop and take a break.

But he can't.

So he doesn't.

Peter follows the sound of the woman's sobs as the light around him fades between growing buildings in a bad part of the city. Her screams are erratic- frequent enough for him to pinpoint her location but too spaced out for him to be able to figure out what's happening.

What happens isn't a scenario that runs through his head.

Peter skids to a stop in front of the mouth of a dark alley, pulls in a raspy breath to try and calm his lungs, before taking a few steps into the darkness. Teary sobs are echoing off of the walls, interrupted by the deep voice of a man. Every time he speaks, she cries harder.

His heart sinks.

 _"Hey!"_ Peter shouts, wincing as his voice cracks. 

Everything in the alley goes quiet. Peter steps around a green dumpster to find the woman, a girl who can't be older than twenty-eight or twenty-nine, cornered against a tall wooden fence by a broad-shouldered figure with a familiar shape in his right hand.

Ah. An armed mugging, then.

The woman, wide eyes watering, peers over her attacker's shoulder to stare at Peter. Something in her expression- the wobble of her lower lip, maybe, or the way she looks like she's _pleading_ for him to save her- tells him that he can't turn away.

The man's muscles tense up when the sound of some random kid's voice echoes off the buildings around him. He looks like he's going to start laughing, and Peter can't blame him, because _come on_. He's _fourteen_ and trying to stop an _actual armed robbery_.

The hell's he supposed to do?

Apparently, he doesn't get to make that decision. With what could plausibly be a battle cry but sounds more like a wet cough, the mugger throws himself at Peter with his gun held high, looking like he wants to smash some heads (not that Peter can see much of him because of the black mask he's wearing). Blue eyes burn with anger, and for a minute, Peter freezes, watching as the gun's arc stops and starts its descent toward the crown of his head.

The woman snaps him out of it. She grips her purse tightly by the straps, raises it high over her head, and clocks the mugger on the shoulder. It's not much- she's a little thing, just a bit over five feet- but it's enough to pull Peter back to reality before he ends up with 'brain damage' in his medical records.

He ducks under the butt of the gun just in time and manages to get behind his attacker. He seems confused- Peter would feel bad for him if he hadn't tried to rob a woman and kill him in a time span of about five minutes. So, instead of going for the 'pity' approach, he tries something new.

He waits until the mugger turns to face him before cocking his fist back and slamming it straight into his jaw. Pain bursts through his knuckles and he hisses, shaking his fingers out, but it works. 

Mask stumbles back, just a bit, and catches himself on the edge of the dumpster. He reaches up and places his left hand on his jaw, rubbing it gently and clicking it back and forth. Peter thinks, in that moment, that it would be the perfect time to attack again (the mugger's off guard and weaker than he was at the start, wouldn't it be easier to kick him while he's down?) but he strikes too late.

The mugger pulls himself back to his feet and, with trembling hands, points the nozzle of his pistol at Peter's chest.

A rush of fear tears through his stomach, because that's no ordinary pawn-shop-bought pistol. That's a beat-up KEL-TEC handgun with some sort of red-brown substance coating the trigger that could easily just be rust.

Peter knows it's not rust.

That's blood, and that gun belongs to the man who killed his uncle.

Just like that night in the convenience store, Peter doesn't think. Through the red haze of his vision, he can faintly register the sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber and the man priming the trigger, but it all happens in slow motion. His sixth sense is blaring an alarm- dangerdangerdanger _danger_ \- and for once, he ignores it.

Peter takes a step forward and _dodges the bullet_.

It brushes past his head, cutting a groove in the fluffy hair beside his ear, so close that he can actually feel its breeze. He doesn't stop to thank his lucky stars that he survived, though.

No, he keeps walking until he's standing right in front of this _coward_ of a man, the man who _dared_ to lay a hand on his family and take away one of the only people he had left.

Peter has never been this angry in his life. He relishes it.

"Who _are_ you?" The man askes, his voice trembling almost as much as his hands. Peter almost scoffs.

He bends down, and carefully, _tenderly_ , wraps his fist in the top of the man's mask and pulls.

Curly blond hair, tan skin, and blue eyes stare back. It's the same man, that's for sure, and he's active enough to have almost done what he did to Ben to the poor woman cowering against the back wall.

Peter tilts his head to one side, takes a deep breath, and _rips_ the gun from his grip.

"I'm the kid you almost shot last year," he says, so quietly that he can barely hear himself. "You're never going to do it again."

One well-aimed punch to the spot behind the man's ear, just like the last time, and Peter can finally breathe.

**_______________**

It hits him while he's on his way home- maybe he's _good_ at this! After all, he's finally caught the man who killed his uncle, and the way that woman looked at him like he had saved her...

It was worth it, really.

That thought hits Peter like a bombshell.

He's _good_ at something, something other than school. That's something he's never even _considered_ as a possibility- Peter Parker had always been that nerdy kid who got pushed down in the hallways because he wasn't strong enough to stand up for himself. But that's not true anymore.

 _You know what to do_.

There are two things that he could do, Peter thinks as he walks down the dark streets, both hands shoved in his pockets as he tries to stay alert. He could keep living the life he's got- just stay a regular homeless kid and ignore whatever powers he's turned out to have until he turns eighteen in four years and can fend for himself- or he could do what he knows Ben would want him to do.

After all, he's got these powers now. Him, not anyone else. It would be wrong to keep them to himself, right?

_You know what to do._

_Yeah_ , Peter thinks, the ghost of a smile passing over his lips. _I do._

**_______________**

The first step is to go back to Midtown Tech, a place he wasn't expecting to see any time soon. Because it's later in the afternoon- six is late, apparently- school clubs and electives have already been dismissed and the vast majority of the staff is already home.

Peter knows he shouldn't be doing this. It's strangely reminiscent of that time when he was thirteen and decided that it would be a brilliant idea to break into Oscorp (it wasn't).

He does it anyway.

The third-story window on the west side of the building is dark, thankfully. Peter looks around, checks to make sure there's nobody around, and when his hopes are confirmed, he places his hands on the uneven brick wall in front of him. Fingers dig into the mortar.

Deep breath in.

Exhale.

He tenses his muscles and prepares to heft his entire weight up three stories of sheer brick, lifting himself and bracing for the strain.

It doesn't come. Something in his fingers ripples and suddenly, he doesn't have to hold himself up. Peter squeaks (he sounds more like a seven-year-old girl than he's willing to admit) and tries to pull away, frantically thinking for a minute that he won't be able to let go. When the hell did _stickiness,_ of all things, come into play? Is this something from the spider?

Yeah, probably. There isn't much else that it could've come from- Peter hasn't been bitten by a _gecko_ or something, right?

Nope. He probably would've noticed if he had been bitten by a gecko.

Peter takes another deep, shuddering breath and wills himself to let go with one hand. There's a moment where it doesn't work and he thinks that some poor custodian is going to show up to school tomorrow and find a spider-kid stuck to the wall.

Then, his hand detaches.

He smiles, the first genuine smile he's smiled in a month, and scales the rest of the building without a problem. In the distance, sirens wail. 

The window slides open without an issue, stuck to Peter's newly-found sticky fingers. He slides over the sill and into the dark chemistry lab that he spent so much of his time in for the first few months of his freshman year, before he dropped, and feels his feet hit solid ground.

It doesn't take long for him to find everything he needs: salicylic acid, touline C6 H5 CH5, methanol, carbon tetrachloride, and a slew of other chemicals that he still can't pronounce. Most of them are locked in cabinets under the sinks, but he opens them without a struggle (superstrength is a blessing) and gets his ingredients together on his old lab table.

It hurts, looking at where he and Ned used to sit together and fanboy over Star Wars when they were supposed to be doing schoolwork.

It hurts more than he expected.

Peter ignores it, a habit he's been getting into a bit too much to be healthy, and pulls out a pair of beakers to get started. The bunsen burners are also stashed under one of the sinks- he uses a bit too much force to get the handle to work and ends up crumpling it a bit in his hand and bites out a curse, trying to straighten it out. There's nothing to be done about it, though, because the damage is irreversible. 

It takes a good half hour or so for his mixture to be finished and perfected, but he gets it right even though there's a bit of an explosion and he may or may not have screamed. He spends another hour digging through bins in the robotics lab as quietly as he can and picking out the materials he needs. Screwdrivers, old metal pieces of what looks like a pc, nozzles, and little rings of metal that he hopes he'll be able to use somehow. 

He's just sat down again, selecting a flathead screwdriver and getting to work on the second half of his problem, when a pair of voices drift under the door from the still-lit hallway. In one gasp, all the air in his lungs is gone. It feels like he's been hit in the chest with a truck.

Peter's barely able to duck under the table before the voices are just outside the door. He cowers behind his stool, trembling with the sudden rush of adrenaline that had just smacked him in the face. He leans in subconsciously, eyebrows furrowed, and listens.

One voice is distinctly female, low-pitched enough to clearly belong to an adult. The second is male and nasally, and if Peter felt like he had been hit by a truck _before_ hearing his voice, now he feels like he's been hit by a _train_.

Ned raises his voice. He sounds close to tears.

"Mrs. Martin, I just want to know what happened to him, I _swear!_ MJ- Michelle and I are both really worried, and nobody will tell us what's going _on._ Please, I just-"

"Mr. Leeds, I'm sorry." Mrs. Martin, Peter's old literature teacher, cuts Ned off briskly. "I wish I could tell you, but there are rules against these sorts of things. Perimeters I can't cross."

"I understand, but if you could just tell us that he's okay...?"

A jolt of guilt shoots through Peter's stomach when he realizes that they're referring to him. He left Ned without telling him anything about what had happened or if he was going to be okay, and the fact that even _MJ_ is worried about him... that hurts.

"I can't tell you anything about Peter's whereabouts. I would if I could, but it could endanger my job and there's really nothing I can do about it."

"But Mrs. Martin-"

" _Mr. Leeds._ " Her tone takes a plunge, and it's obvious that Martin isn't open to discussion. Ned goes quiet. "I won't entertain the thought of my breaking the rules and endangering my lifestyle. I'm sure wherever Peter is, he's taking care of himself."

Quiet. Peter can hear Ned sniffling in the hallway and has to tether himself to the corner of the table to keep himself from rushing out there and helping his friend.

"Now, it's time to go ahead and close up. Your mother's waiting for you."

Ned mutters an affirmative and the sound of footsteps reaches into the chem lab, fading away until Peter can't hear it anymore.

He waits until they're gone, gathers himself up, and gets back to work.

**_______________**

The hoodie's hanging in the window of an old consignment shop on the bad side of Queens, illuminated by a soft golden glow. The dark red color of its fabric stands out against brown paper backing, and Peter stops for a minute in the middle of an empty sidewalk.

He doesn't know why, but it means something to him. It catches his eye.

It's exactly what he means.

There's enough money left in his backpack for him to spend on clothes (exactly fifty dollars and eight cents; the rest of his money is hidden in a locked box in his safehouse). Peter stands there for a minute, staring at the hoodie with wide eyes, before opening the door and walking into the store. He can afford it now.

There's only one employee working this late- a balding man with a ring of fuzzy hair stretching around his ears and the back of his head. He's reading a magazine about cars and doesn't bother to look up when Peter walks in, simply muttering a "Tell me if you need any help" and going back to his reading.

Peter raises a hand, knowing full well that the man can't hear it, and stretches up on his tip-toes to take the hoodie off of its hanger in the display window. He holds it up to his torso, wondering nervously if it's going to fit (he's gone from being scrawn but well-fed to lithe, muscular, and probably underweight) and, to his delight, it's the right size.

He drapes it over his arm and slides between a pair of displays into the maze of clothing racks and tables that fills the rest of the store. It takes him a while to find what he needs, but eventually, he does: a long-sleeved black thermal shirt and a pair of matching sweatpants that don't drag on the floor around his ankles. They're well within his price range, thankfully, and he makes his way up to the front desk.

When Peter dumps his pile of loot in front of the cashier, he's met with a glare that could rival the ones his aunt used to give him when he'd mouthed off. He shrinks back, trying to make himself look as small as he can, and watches as the man's hand creeps ever-so-slowly toward his phone.

It's a desperate gamble.

"Please, don't," Peter mumbles, his voice so low it's almost a whisper. He keeps his eyes glued firmly to the counter. "I know how this looks, but I just want to buy the clothes and leave. I'm not here to cause any trouble."

The cashier has the common decency to look ashamed of himself. He drops the phone and shakes his head. Starts ringing up Peter's purchases.

"Thanks."

An exasperated sigh. "Sorry, kid, that wasn't fair of me." He hesitates for a moment before reaching under the desk and pulling out a pair of gloves and slaps them down on the counter, pushing them toward Peter. "Take these, too."

"I can't-" Peter curses the break in his voice. "I can't afford them. I just wanna buy the other stuff, I swear-"

"No, I mean _take_ them. On the house. Can't sell 'em, anyway, and they're just sitting under the desk."

When he hesitates, the cashier rolls his eyes and wraps the gloves up in the hoodie. "You look like you could use 'em, kid. Go on."

Peter nods carefully and places a wad of crumpled-up cash on the counter before taking his purchases and shoving them into his backpack. The cashier watches him sadly, counting the bills in one hand.

"Th-thanks," Peter stammers. He grabs the gloves and smooths them over, slipping them on and flexing his fingers. "You didn't have to-"

"I know I didn't, but I did. Now go on. Get outta here."

He nods and makes his way over to the door, head down, pretending not to hear the muttered " _Good luck, kid_ " that drifts along behind him.


	3. Did You Love But Never Learn?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man makes his first appearance. Peter Parker takes a bunch of shit. Surprise, surprise.
> 
> Warnings: ah, none to speak of, really? I guess? homeless problems, as per the usual. The real angst starts next chapter.

The warehouse that Peter calls home isn't exactly the definition of 'homey'. Obviously. It wasn't his first choice (that was an alley behind a few restaurants in Manhattan, but it was already taken). Almost every window is shattered, the rooms are full of empty cardboard boxes, and one of the floors is almost completely covered by a population of pigeons.

But, _hey_ , at least he's alive. Right?

Not really, no, because (cue the cringe-worthy puns, Parker) _winter is coming_ , and nobody bothers to heat buildings that nobody (see: Peter) actually uses. 

So the place is about fifty degrees during the day and drops ten more at night.

Peter doesn't complain. He's got a system worked out (it's not a good one, but he won't admit that).

He's set up camp on the top floor, above the hustle and bustle of New York's streets. He's got one room on the north side of the building, something that looks like it used to be some sort of office. There's an old desk that must've been forgotten, a bunch of paper scattered around the floor, and all sorts of detritus from all over the city. He fits comfortably in a small space between the wall and the desk, swaddled in threadbare blankets with his backpack clutched close to his chest. Sometimes, when it gets too cold, he takes some of the bubble wrap from the boxes and uses those, too.

It's not enough, _especially_ now that he's part spider. Suffice it to say, life's not exactly fun.

It's another cold day in New York City, three days after the incident at the consignment shop. Peter's wrapped himself in blankets and hidden himself away in his favorite room (it's a Sunday, so the coffee shop is closed) with a pack of granola bars and a bottle of four-day-old Gatorade. The temperature has to be ten degrees lower than it was the day before- which is normal for New York in October- and he isn't psyched.

But he's got the suit.

It took three days to pull it together. Three days to find enough needles and thread, three days to nab a pair of kitchen scissors from a hot dog vendor on Sixty-Seventh. Peter had holed himself up in his room and hadn't left until it was finished, which had resulted in an absence from his job, a hundred-dollar drawback in his paycheck, and a diet of energy drinks and cliff-bars from the old vending machine on the third level.

It had paid off.

Peter shakes off his blankets and slips out of his grungy jeans and t-shirt. He pulls on the sweatpants, thermal, and hoodie, slips through the doorway and into a hall, and finds the most intact window he can. 

It's dirty and covered with old tape marks, but he can see enough of himself to come to a conclusion.

He doesn't look like a superhero.

In the month since Peter became homeless, his appearance has changed drastically. His face, which was once soft and full of childlike happiness, is now made of sharp angles and lines. The set of his jaw is hard and angry- he looks like a menace. No _wonder_ he gets weird looks on the streets.

But the suit... the suit changes things.

It's nothing like any of the Avengers' suits, in that they have _money_ and _resources_ and Peter has none of those. Instead, he has a warehouse, a hoodie, and a set of powers that won't let him stand by and watch as the world crumbles.

It's not enough, but it'll have to do.

Peter looks himself up and down, takes in his makeshift suit, and smiles.

He has a purpose again.

**_______________**

It's raining when Peter makes his way up to the roof and steps over to the edge, planting one foot firmly on the border and staring down at the streets. They're six stories and at least a hundred feet below him, far enough to guarantee that he would get seriously injured if he fell, but somehow, he knows that he's not going to.

He takes a deep breath and slips the mask- made of the sleeves of his hoodie- over his fluffy hair, adjusting it to make sure his goggles are in the right position. The way they've been designed, made of what looks like camera lenses, helps him filter out what qualifies as an immediate danger and what doesn't. His senses dull and fade into something like background noise, and Peter feels like he can breathe.

Finally.

Pinpricks of cold rain seep through to his shoulders.

Peter inhales, exhales, trying to calm his racing heart. Every nerve in his body is firing up and _screaming_ at him- _badbadbadbadBADBAD DANGER_.

He ignores them like the idiot he is.

A pair of pigeons soar overhead as the rain intensifies. It fogs up his goggles and leaves drops on the lenses, clouding his vision and making it harder for him to see. He huffs and wipes away the condensation, shaking his head furiously. Of _course_ it would rain the day he's finally ready to use his suit. Parker luck strikes again.

For a minute, standing up on top of a decrepit warehouse in the pouring rain, Peter wonders if this is all worth it. If he's willing to just... _throw_ his life away like this and leave everything else in the dust. 

The answer, he thinks, is _yes_. There was never really a question.

He looks down to his hands, carefully adjusting the mixtures of metal, leather, and wire that adorn his wrists. He positions the lever just above the center of his palm. Presses down gently, then uses a bit more force when nothing happens.

A stream of sticky fluid spurts out of the nozzle, slams into the building across the way, and- thank _God_ \- _stays_ there. Peter suppresses a huge grin, tests the line's tensile strength by leaning back (it's off-the-charts _crazy_ ).

He bends his knees.

Jumps.

 _Flies_.

**_______________**

The first day goes by quickly. Peter takes a few hours to learn the ins and outs of web-slingers: the calculations involved, the use of angles that prevent him from slamming into buildings, the velocity and force that keeps him moving in a strong arc.

It's harder than he thought it would be, but not impossible. Because of the spider bite, he has the strength to carry himself through the city and the stamina to avoid tiring as quickly as he normally would. The lack of asthma is a game-changer, as well (he wouldn't be able to do _any_ of this if he couldn't breathe).

But it's still hard, and by the time sun sets, Peter finds himself breathing heavily and sweating like crazy, which isn't fun in cold weather. Water drips down the back of his neck, chilled and icy, and he shivers. This would be fine if he had a warm place to go back to, but he _doesn't_ , so it's a serious issue. He's heading back to a place that's just about as cold as the streets and probably has leaks all over the place.

He's not exactly the definition of _excited_.

Peter groans, adjusts the goggles _again_ , and looks around nervously. He's managed to find a perch on top of a building in the middle of Queens- ironically, it's close to where he used to live with May.

It's also close to the coffee shop.

_Maybe..._

It's a bit late at night for Kari and Ellie to still be working, but he decides to try his luck, anyway. 

Five extra minutes of swinging through the streets in the rain, soaked to the bone and freezing, pays off. Taste of Heaven's windows are still glowing, gold light spilling out onto the streets. Peter can see movement in one of the windows, can see the sway of Kari's hair over her shoulders.

He sighs, relief heavy in his voice. Strips out of the hoodie and mask, leaving himself just in sweatpants, a thermal top, and a beat-up pair of Converse high tops that give him absolutely _no_ traction. No, there aren't any vigilantes over here, just Peter Parker.

He folds his extra clothes up neatly, tucks them under his arm, and jogs through the rain toward the shop. The street is devoid of cars, fortunately, and he barely glances to either side as he rushes through puddles and jumps the curb, narrowly avoiding a parking sign and the fender of a beat-up car, parked for the night.

The door is locked when he gets there.

" _No!_ " Peter hisses, trying the lock again and again and getting no new results. He throws his entire body against the door, frantically jiggling the handle in a desperate attempt to get inside. It's too cold, and he doesn't want to have to swing all the way back to the warehouse before the rain's let up a bit.

Nobody comes. Kari and Ellie must be in the back, too far away to hear him. He groans and sinks down to a sitting position, back to the wall, cowering under the awning as water drips down in front of him and splashes him.

It's dark, wet, cold... Peter's _miserable_. He can't bring himself to move, though, can't bring himself to get up and find a more permanent shelter so he can ride out the storm. A burst of lightning, followed by a crackle of thunder, fills the sky ahead. He can't make it back in weather like this.

So he just... _stays._ For what seems like _hours,_ he sits beneath the awning with his wet clothes tucked in his lap and his head buried in his knees, hoping that his bosses- who might as well fire him, considering the fact that he _literally_ skipped out on three days of work without a word of excuse- will decide to unlock the door or find him or _something_. It's futile, and he knows it.

He still hopes, though.

It happens just when he's decided that it might be time to go ahead back and risk the lighting: the lock clicks and, ever so slowly, the door begins to creep open. Whispers flood through the crack- Kari and Ellie, _finally_. Peter scrambles to his feet, gripping his clothes like they're all he has left, and tries to brush his sopping hair out of his face.

The door slams shut. Peter jumps back, startled, as a pair of equally-terrified faces (one freckly and pale, the other tan) stare back at him, hands gripping the bar with white knuckles and tensed muscles.

Ellie elbows her girl out of the way, wide-eyed, and flings the door open with so much force that it almost slams against the window. She's outside before a pale Peter can do anything, gripping him firmly by the elbows and steering him inside before closing the door again. The two women are all over him, fussing with the state of his clothes and his hair and how _cold_ he is. Peter doesn't move.

"The _hell_ , Peter?!" Ellie screams, her hair frizzing up around her face and making her look slightly deranged. "I thought you were a _murderer_ or something! You can't just- _WHY ARE YOU SO WET?!"_

Yeah, their neighbors probably love them.

Peter shakes his head mutely, his heart still racing, and watches nervously as they react. "I- I, uh-"

"Shhh," Kari murmurs, rubbing her hands over his biceps and wincing as water drips off of his shirt like a sponge. "Shhh, Peter, she's just worried, it's okay."

" _Peter_ , you're _freezing!_ Why are you _freezing?"_

"And why weren't you at home?"

"Why were you _outside_ the _coffee shop?_ "

"Peter, are you...?"

Peter bites his lip. Kari and Ellie are both so concerned that their voices keep rising, and after the thunder outside and being immersed in the many noises of New York, he can't help feeling a bit overwhelmed- okay, more than a _bit._

"I'm o-okay," he mutters, trying to ignore how his teeth chatter. "J-just c-cold. I c-can l-l-leave if you w-want. I-I shouldn't ha-have-"

Ellie scoffs and smacks him in the back of the head. "Shut _up_ , kid, I don't _care._ We're just worried."

"Come on," Kari says. She smiles reassuringly, but Peter can see how nervous she looks. "Let's get you warmed up, okay?"

They wrap their arms around his shoulders, ignoring the way water spreads onto their clothes from his, and leads him into the kitchen. Kari pulls a stool over to the oven, opens the door, and sits him down as Ellie turns it on. Peter shudders as warmth floods into the room, envelopes his body, fills his bones and veins. He feels so much _better_.

So much better.

Ellie and Kari sit on the ground next to him, watching with concerned expressions on their faces. When they don't think he's watching, they mouth words at each other- words that he can't understand but knows the meaning of all the same.

"So," Kari says gently, breaking the silence. "Why were you out there, Peter?"

"I was..." Peter blushes. "Just cold, I guess. Um... my house is too far away for me to walk. I didn't really know where else to go."

The lie burns his throat. He sticks to it.

"I was heading out to get groceries because we were low on... stuff... and I got caught in the rain. So, uh, yeah? That's it."

Kari and Ellie raise their eyebrows in unison. _Freaky mind-linked girlfriends._

"Your parents sent you out in this?"

"Ah. Er..."

Difficulty level rising.

Peter fudges his words, looking anywhere but his bosses- his amazing bosses that might _not_ fire him after all. "That would be correct. My sister's sick and my mom and dad needed to stay with her, but they really needed... amoxicillin."

He says the first thing that pops into his head, and judging from the looks on their faces, it's a bad lie.

"She has the flu." Desperate.

So, so desperate. 

_Stupidly_ desperate.

"It _is_ flu season," Ellie says thoughtfully. "Do you want us to walk you to the grocery? I don't feel comfortable with you walking around on your own."

"No!" Too quick, _too quick_. "I mean, no. Thanks, though, but it's not that far. I can go on my own." Peter shrugs hopelessly and grins, but even _he_ knows that it looks fake. 

"And the cold?" Kari adds. "You're wet and it's sixty degrees out there, Peter."

"It isn't _that_ bad. Low seventies?"

Ellie tilts her head to one side, unimpressed. "Sixty-two. I looked it up. But if you're so determined..."

She takes her own jacket down from its peg and throws it at Peter's chest. He catches it instinctually, turning the waterproof fabric over and over in his hands. Warm.

"Take that."

Oh.

_Oh._

"No," Peter protests, trying to shove the jacket back in Ellie's direction. "No, I couldn't do that! I'll be fine, don't worry."

"Peter."

Kari reaches over and turns the oven down, just a bit. Peter, to his eternal embarrassment, _whines_ like a kicked dog. 

Ellie snorts. "There. Proof. Now, take the jacket and get out of here. We'll be expecting you at work tomorrow, now that we know you aren't dead."

**_______________**

He sees it on the sidewalk in front of his warehouse: a glaringly bright sign covered in red wording, so large and bold that it's almost impossible to miss. Nevertheless, in the darkness, Peter almost passes it by.

When it catches his eye, his breath stops in his throat. He takes a shuddering breath, then two, then three, and has to _fight_ to keep himself together. To keep himself from crying.

Because right there, on the sign, is one word. One fire-hydrant red, blockily typed, _awful_ word.

CONDEMNED.

**_______________**

Tony takes a long sip of his burning coffee, closing his eyes in blissful exhaustion in slumping over his table. He hums quietly, happily, as warmth spreads from his shoulders to his stomach and leaves him tingling. It's a great feeling, that 'first coffee of the morning' buzz. 

He's planning on having about eight more before the hour's over.

Tony's perfectly content to just _stay_ there for the rest of the day and not do anything. After all, he does plenty of work already- Iron Man-ing isn't exactly an _easy_ job, and helping Pepper run Stark Industries is all he does in his spare time if he doesn't count inventing as anything- and he doesn't really _sleep_ , either, so why shouldn't he be able to take a break? Normal people can do it, so he should be able to, too.

Pepper disagrees.

A sharp nail sticks him in the bicep, straight through his t-shirt. Tony hisses and shoots up, slamming his mug down onto the table. Coffee splashes over the rims and onto his hands. He curses.

Pepper smiles, innocent, and passes him a fluffy towel. "Sorry, Tony. You were zoning out."

"I was focused on something else," Tony mutters, rolling his eyes and wiping the hot liquid off of his hand. "Not zoning out."

"Focused on zoning out, maybe. I know when you're not paying attention. I know the look in your eyes."

He smiles, despite himself, the warm feeling that Pepper sends through his bones more than anything coffee can give him. "I know you do." 

"Good." Pepper brushes a strand of ginger hair out of her face. "Because, despite whatever you think, you have a job to do. You can't just sit there and do nothing all day."

"But I could."

"But you can't."

A moment of silence. Tony shakes his head, one corner of his mouth twitching. Mid-morning sunlight filters through the penthouse window. Tony and Pepper's living quarters in Stark Tower are the perfect picture of domestic life.

"But I can't."

Pepper places a hand on the side of his face, brushing her fingers over his hair. "There you are."

He leans in, presses his lips to her temple. Places a hand over hers. "Here I am."

They stay like that for what seems like forever, locked into position like statues in front of a full sun, New York's skyline showing through the window of their living room. Tony breathes in the smell of Pepper's shampoo- lavender and lemon- and just _stays. Lives._

That's all he has to do.

They break apart when FRIDAY, uninvited and interrupting, crackles in over the loudspeakers with a hint of feedback to grab their attention. Tony jerks away and stares up at the ceiling, annoyed, and releases Pepper.

_"Sorry for the intrusion, boss, but Captain Rogers and Miss Romanoff need you down in the main lounge."_

"And they can't wait five minutes?" He scoffs. "Figures that it would be Rogers and Romanoff. Where's Barnes? Barton?"

_"Sergeant Barnes and Mr. Barton are also in the main lounge."_

"Everyone else?"

_"Main lounge."_

FRIDAY sounds almost empathetic (you know, if Tony had programmed her with empathy in mind). It's almost enough for him to forgive her for messing up his morning.

"Thanks, FRI."

_"Of course, boss."_

Click, buzz, good-bye. Tony rolls his eyes and groans, tipping his head back so far that Pepper winces and wonders if it hurts his neck. She bites her lip and rubs him on the shoulder, wrinkling the fabric of his shirt, before speaking.

"You probably have to go now, right? Cap and Natasha need you?"

Another groan. "I guess I do. I _could_ just stay here, though, and hang out with you. Rogers doesn't have access to this floor."

"Nobody but you and I does, Tony," Pepper said gently. "That doesn't mean you can barricade yourself up here and leave them to their own devices."

"But I-"

She raised an eyebrow and placed her finger on his lips. "Tony. We're not doing this again. If Captain America and the Black Widow need you, you should probably go see them."

"Pep-"

"At least _ask_ them what they want. Be easygoing."

Tony furrowed his brow and fiddled with his coffee cup, threading his fingers through the handle over and over again in a nervous habit. "I'm always easygoing." He pouted.

"Tony, you're _never_ easygoing. Just do what FRIDAY said, okay? Go see what Steve wants."

He sighed, meeting Pepper's gentle gaze with his own uneasy one. "Pep."

"Tony."

Maybe it's something about how pleading and exasperated she sounds, but Tony can't help himself. He sighs, nods, and stands in a single, fluid movement, placing his fingers on his temples like he has a headache. Maybe he does- she wouldn't be surprised.

"I'll do it, but only because you said to. And if Rogers gets annoying, I'm coming back up."

"I'll be waiting patiently."

"You always do."

**_______________**

Most people don't think of the Avengers as a family. The _Avengers_ don't think of themselves as a family.

They all secretly know that they're wrong, though.

They're just a big, angry, loud, dysfunctional family. But, then again, what family isn't? They seem to fit the criteria pretty well.

The proverbial 'family' is sitting in the kitchen when Tony walks in. Well, sitting might be a kinder term to view it. In reality, the majority of the Avengers look like they've been dragged out of bed and into some sort of high-security meeting, and none of them look particularly happy about it.

Natasha and Clint are the first people Tony sees when he walks in. She's got her hair pulled back into a messy bun on the crown of her head and, perched on top of the counter, has Clint propped up against one of her legs. He's wearing those damn sunglasses of his despite the lack of windows and natural light.

Bruce is the only person acting like a regular human being, even though he's far from it. He's parked himself in one of the chairs at the island and is nursing a cup of steaming tea, watching the door through his glasses like he's expecting someone (he probably is).

Sam (Falcon, newest resident, pain in the ass) is sprawled out- unsurprisingly- on the tile floor with a pancake draped over his eyes and a thin trail of syrup dripping from his nose to his chin. He looks like he's dead, and for a minute, Tony wonders if he actually might be. Maybe one of the three resident assassins finally decided to take him out for good.

Speaking of three resident assassins...

This is the tough one.

Steve Rogers, traitor extraordinaire, and James Buchanan Barnes, mother murderer and amnesia case, have managed to cram themselves into one of the chairs and are sitting so close together that they might as well have been on top of each other. Barnes, with his hair tied up in a neat bun, has one arm slung around Steve's shoulder and his metal fist (the famed metal fist) is wrapped around his own coffee cup, full of milky liquid.

Figures that the famed Winter Soldier takes his coffee with so much cream that it isn't even coffee anymore.

Tony clears his throat and strides into the room with the grace of a practiced dancer, stretching and yawning like he's just woken up. Barnes, the stress case that he is, twitches and almost drops his mug when he sees the child of two of his victims; Tony watches out of the corner of his eye as Steve whispers something into his ear and strokes a hand over his neck. Barnes relaxes.

Tony pretends not to notice.

"So, I've been told that there's some sort of impromptu... what is this, an intervention? If it's about the alcohol issue, I'm not interested."

Steve's not amused. He pulls away from Bucky and stares at Tony with serious eyes, taking another sip of his coffee.

"It has nothing to do with the alcohol issue, Tony. It's a briefing."

" _Dammit,_ tell SHIELD I'm not interested. I wanna sleep."

Tony crosses the room, takes his own mug from the shelves, and pours himself a coffee. He practically inhales about half of the cup and pretends not to feel the way it burns going down.

"I can't do that."

"Sure you can, just carry over the message. C'mon, can't be too hard."

"It is if you're connecting directly with Nick Fury," Natasha mutters. 

Clint nods in agreement, shoves a bagel into his mouth, and grins with his mouth full of food. "An' 'e idn't 'un, man. No' 'un."

Tony rolls his eyes. "I didn't understand a word of what you just said."

Natasha slugs Clint in the bicep and smacks him on the back of the head. "Chew your food, hooligan," she says fondly. "Someone might think you're not an adult."

He swallows.

"And he isn't fun, man. _Not fun_. Is that better?"

"Much. Rogers," Tony acknowledges, nodding in the blond's direction. "Explain."

Steve sighs.

"There's been a new addition to the vigilante scene in New York," he explains, massaging his temples with one hand and gripping his mug in the other. "We don't have a name, an identity, anything. He was sighted over on the bad side of Queens yesterday afternoon and Fury sent in a message."

Oh. So not an earth-shaking issue, then.

"I feel slighted, you know?" Tony grins toothily. The Avengers share nervous looks- when he's in a mood, there's no rest for anyone; they've learned that. "You pulled me out of a nice morning with my wife _just_ to tell me about some clown messing around in Queens? This isn't worth my time."

He stands up to leave, but before he can move toward the door, Natasha's already crossed the room and forcefully sat him back down.

"It is if Fury says so, Stark."

"Actually," Clint cuts in, "he says it isn't a pressing issue right now. Flash-fire vigilantes pop up all the time and disappear in less than a week."

"Whose side are you _on?_ "

"Mine."

Natasha glowers at Clint from her position over Tony, shaking her head slowly. "I swear to God, Clint Barton, you'd better pull yourself together."

"I'm out of tape."

"Shut your mouth."

" _Anyway!_ " Steve shouts. He holds a hand up for silence and, of course, everyone listens. Tony snorts. "Fury just called to make sure that we know about this guy, okay? Nothing drastic. Just a precaution."

"We don't really know anything about him yet, Tony. Nothing about his motives, whether or not he's on our side, _anything_."

Sam removes the pancake from his face, sits up, and licks the syrup off of his chin, his expression suddenly all business.

"Fury wanted to put us on alert. Like Clint said, he could be gone within the month. We just have to be careful."

Tony nods thoughtfully and edges around Natasha, brushing out the wrinkles on his AC/DC t-shirt. He maneuvers himself around so that his back is to the door and he's facing his teammates, smiling on the way, before reaching back and gripping the doorframe.

"Wonderful meeting, team, just wonderful. Thank you for the info. Very good stuff. Absolutely worth the interruption. Rogers, I really appreciate that. Romanoff."

He nods again.

"But. I have to go. So."

He turns and races away, flying down the hallways so fast that he's surprised he hasn't fallen yet.

"Keep an eye out!" Sam shouts, his voice echoing off the walls and carrying through the hallways of Stark Tower.

"Will do!" Tony says.

 _Damn right I won't,_ Tony thinks. 


	4. And No One Cares (There's No One There)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year later, Peter's predicament hasn't gotten any better.  
> The holiday season isn't very happy anymore.
> 
> Tony hasn't given another thought to the whole 'Identity' thing. Nah, he's too busy hanging out at coffee shops and bothering the teenage baristas.
> 
> Warnings: the usual. another pretty mild chapter before we get into the real action.
> 
> No spider-man appearances here because I got caught up in Peter and Tony's interaction. The next chapter will contain the inciting action, I swear.
> 
> This chapter was written to Totally Fine by Alan Silvestri, straight from the Endgame Soundtrack itself. Very depressing, very good motivation. Brilliant.
> 
> p.s. not proof-read or beta'd, so tell me if you see any glaring mistakes.

Early December in New York City is _brutal_. With temperatures hovering in the low fifties and mid-forties, there isn't much wiggle room- you either have what you need or you don't.

Peter falls somewhere in the second category.

He's made a list of what he has, keeps it zipped up in his old backpack to make sure he hasn't lost anything important. It isn't long: a carefully folded wad of cash in the bottom of his bag, hidden away to make sure nobody else can find it; three granola bars for emergencies; ibuprofen (fighting crime isn't safe, kids); his Spider-Man suit (that's what he's decided to call himself); a pair of extra socks; his pictures.

That's it. Everything Peter owns fits in one bag.

That's his lot in life.

Pathetic.

He's trying to keep up morale, but it's been a _long_ year since he hit the streets in the first place, and nothing good has come of it. In fact, if he's being honest, nothing has come of it at all. He's just tired, cold, and hungry, and all he wants to do is sleep. For as long as he can. Hours, days, months... it doesn't matter.

He wants to stop.

But he can't. 

And, to be fair, there are people out there who have it worse than him. Sure, he doesn't _have_ anything, but at least he's still in full control of himself. He could be like the man who sits on the curb on Bleeker Street for hours on end with his head in his hands, not moving or saying a word until the police force him to leave. He could be like the woman at the homeless shelter who paces back and forth between her cot and the one he borrowed for his one-night stay (before he realized that CPS probably checked shelters regularly and left) and mutters under her breath about fire and rain and someone called _Liam_.

 _It could be so much worse_.

Peter's eyes brush over a man with a scruffy beard and haunted eyes, nestled snug in a threadbare jacket on the bench outside Taste of Heaven. He knows he should feel some sort of sympathy, anything at all, but he _doesn't_.

He's in the same boat now.

A year ago, he would've offered up some sort of help. Money, maybe, or leftover food. He doesn't have any of that now.

So he keeps walking, turning cold eyes to the shop and entering without another thought.

A wave of warm air slams into his chest and infiltrates his body the second he steps inside, closing the door carefully behind himself to keep the warm in and the cold out. Kari's the one to greet him this time, already stacking pastries behind the counter, grinning over the register and waving a hand.

"Hey!" She exclaims, her white teeth glowing in the November darkness. "Cold out there?"

Peter shivers and strips out of his jacket (taken from a donation bin in the closest Goodwill), slinging it over his shoulder.

"Yeah, it's- it's pretty cold. Good customer run?"

"Probably."

"Peter's here?" Ellie shouts from the kitchen, her voice carrying through the doorway and into the main part of the restaurant. "Kari, is he here yet?"

"I'm here!" Peter answered.

"Good, I need your opinion on these doughnuts. Get back here!"

Kari shrugs and gestures for him to do what she says, and he doesn't have a reason to argue. Peter nods and crosses into the kitchen. Hangs his backpack and jacket up. Turns to where Ellie stands at the oven, her hands on her hips and one foot tapping impatiently. Her hair is pulled up into a bun, frizzy strands flying out in every direction like a pufferfish.

She grabs a warm doughnut off of the baking tray and, in every sense of the term, _throws_ it at him. Peter's barely able to catch it, relying heavily on his senses, and almost crushes it between his fingers. He pops it into his mouth in one bite before he can break it.

Instantly, the sweet taste of fried dough and glaze washes over his tongue. Peter closes his eyes, chewing carefully and relishing the way fresh food makes him feel. The last thing he'd eaten was a packet of salted peanuts from a gas station.

This is a welcome change.

"Good?" Ellie asks, her eyebrows climbing skyward. "You look... odd. I didn't poison you, did I?"

"No!" Peter waves his hands at her like a frenetic jazz dancer. "No, they're great! Really- really good, Ellie!"

"Awesome. Go help Kari with the day's set-up, will you? I'll have some more stuff for you to try ready soon."

Peter nods and heads back into the counter area, his stomach full of warmth. He's pretty sure that, at this point, Kari and Ellie have figured out about his predicament- at least, a few elements of it. They'd have to be stupid not to, and if there's anything that they _aren't_ , it's stupid.

Kari opens the shop earlier in the winters and leaves the door unlocked later at night. Ellie always makes sure that he's the first to try anything she comes up with and gives him whatever they don't sell with the excuse that she and Kari can't eat it all and it would be a waste to throw it out. They both gave him their phone numbers (of course, Peter can't use them, because he doesn't have a phone) to make sure he keeps in contact with them.

They're good people.

Peter tries to ignore the strands of silver tinsel draped over the cash register as he counts and sorts dollar bills, his eyes fixed dutifully to his work. It only serves to remind him of what he's missing- his second holiday season without May. It's hard to pretend like it isn't happening (there are lights strung up everywhere in the city and trees in the plazas) but he still tries, because _Lord,_ it's depressing. 

The holiday season is probably his least favorite part of the year.

A plate of cookies sits on the register- gingerbread covered with colorful icing and decorations. Santa Claus, reindeer, golden bells, the works.

"Hey!" Peter grins at Kari and points down at the plate. "Nice job with the icing."

She shoots him a thumbs-up and grins. Peter goes back to organizing the counter, sweeping scraps of paper into the trash can and dusting it off to get it as neat as he can. For a few blessed moments, everything is normal.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

**_______________**

Tony likes to think that he's a pretty easygoing person. After all, he puts up with Steve and the rest of his Rogues hanging out in his common space- in his _building,_ nonetheless. He puts up with the guy who _literally_ killed his parents. Bucky sleeps _two floors below him_ and he hasn't commented once.

But there are times when everything becomes too much. There are times when Tony _actually_ can't deal with the people he lives with, when the memories overwhelm him and he can't be around them. When he needs a break.

This is one of those times.

Everyone's hanging out in the main kitchen. The entirety of the Rogues ended up strewn across the couches, and since Rhodey and Vision had left for the Compound, Tony's virtually alone. Nobody else seems to feel the same way he does. Nobody else harbors the same anger.

Tony is, in reality, _not_ a very easygoing person.

So, to avoid a fight, he just... leaves. He loads one of his suits and a few blankets into the back of his favorite car- he's _freezing_ , seriously- and drives off into the gray November morning, leaving the rest of his 'team' in the house that he used to feel safe in.

It's not quite to the point of snow yet, but it's definitely getting close. Cold rain falls from the sky and splatters against Tony's windshield, obscuring his vision and making the traffic lights look like angel halos. He switches on the windshield wipers and drives aimlessly for what seems like hours but probably amounts for ten minutes max, glancing out the windows every few moments to figure out where he is. The city's technically his home, but he could count the number of times he's made an effort to get to know it.

Maybe, now that Steve's hanging out in his tower, he can finally take a bit of a break.

He drives for a few more minutes, barely paying any attention to his surroundings, before a neon sign catches his eye in the passenger window.

In the rain, pale pink and white blend together in a watercolor of light. Tony presses down lightly on the brakes and leans over, craning his neck to see the words through thick sheets of water.

 _Taste of Heaven Coffee Shop_.

Huh. Well, he hasn't had his daily cup, and there's not really anything else to do if he wants to stay away from the tower.

Tony pulls into a parking spot right in front of the shop, the lights glinting off of the yellow paint on his Audi. He drags an umbrella out of the back seat and slides into the road, carefully keeping his balance against slick cement as he dashes around the front of the car to the sidewalk. Water splashes under his feet and spreads up his legs, seeping through the fabric of his pants.

A man sits next to the front door, grizzled and beat-up and coughing hard enough to make even _Tony_ wince. He almost keeps waling, almost ignores him, but a sharp pain shoots through his chest.

 _They say there's a correlation between generosity and guilt_.

Maybe they're right. It's too cold to leave anyone on their own.

He pulls a wrinkled fifty out of his pocket and crouches down, wincing at the way a pair of dull eyes come up to settle on his face. The man shrinks back slightly, tilting his head to one side, and pushes himself further into his jacket like he wants to disappear.

Ouch.

"Hey, it's okay," Tony says. He's trying for a soothing tone (it's probably not working. He's not a very soothing person). "Just wanted to give you this."

He holds out the money and, when there's no reaction, presses it into the man's cold hand.

"It's too cold for anyone to be out here like this. Go get something warm to eat, okay? Have a nice day."

That seems a bit insensitive, but Tony's already said it. He shoots the man a friendly smile and stands back up, his umbrella forgotten. Turns to go inside.

"Bless you."

A quiet whisper, but still loud enough for him to hear it. He nods, warmth flooding his heart, and walks into the coffee shop without another word.

It's enough.

At first glance, the coffee shop is absolutely _packed_. Almost every table and booth is occupied, there's a line at the counter, and the display case is running low already. Tony curses under his breath- you wanted to get to know the city, idiot- and slips into the back of the line, right behind a woman with a ponytail and a kid in her arms. The kid looks like he's about to cry, all snotty-nosed and red-faced.

Brilliant.

He stands there for about five minutes as the line inches forward, cycling through patrons at an impressive speed. From what Tony can see, there's only one person manning the counter and taking care of everyone's purchases (it doesn't really seem fair, but hey, this isn't his establishment).

One customer left, and he can see the cashier.

It's- and this is surprising, even for Tony- a kid. 

He's probably around twelve or thirteen, fourteen at the oldest, with a head full of thick hair and a pair of matching shadows under his eyes. He's a skinny little thing, too- his t-shirt hangs off of his frame like it's a few sizes too big. He looks _way_ too young to be working already.

The baby starts crying. Tony waits as patiently as he can, pretending not to be bored half out of his mind. The kid sort of panics, eyes widening, and rings up the woman's purchases as fast as he can to get her out of the line. 

And then it's Tony's turn.

The kid doesn't notice him at first- he's counting out cash and sorting it into the register. Tony stands there for a minute, eyebrows climbing, before he finally loses it and raps his knuckles against the counter.

"Hey."

He jerks, dropping the money all over the register and murmuring a curse quietly under his breath. 

"Sorry, sorry," the kid mutters. "Ah..."

Tony cranes his neck to see the nametag pinned to his light green apron. Scrawled across the plastic in messy handwriting is the word _Peter_ , accented by a little smiley face after the _r_. Cute.

So maybe he feels a bit bad about making him drop his stuff. Tony grimaces and reaches over the counter, stacking up a few of the ones and setting them on top of the cash register.

"Sorry, kid, didn't mean to scare you."

The kid- Peter- shakes his head, a wavery smile curling over his lips. "No, it's okay, don't worry about it. I'm just twitchy."

"Right." 

Peter looks up at him. Freezes. Tony can see the exact moment where it registers- wide brown eyes stare up at him, framed by curls and sharp cheekbones. His jaw drops.

Tony just snickers. This is the sort of reaction he's gotten used to at this point. Everyone's always surprised by the great Tony Stark.

"Hey. Nice morning, right?"

"Holy shit _._ "

"Yeah, definitely. I'll have a... let's see, I'll have the peppermint mocha and a chocolate-chip scone. Dine in."

"Holy _shit_."

"We've established that." _God,_ this is hilarious.

Peter's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. 

"You're _Tony Stark!_ "

Tony nods. Smirks. "Yes, I am. And you are?"

"Ah- Omigo-"

"Yep, Tony Stark, very cool. Coffee?"

"Oh."

Peter's cheeks flood with red. He shoves the cash into the register harshly and ducks behind the counter, pulling out a paper cup and filling it up with dark liquid. Tony watches from his spot in line, one brow arched, and smirks the entire time. He can see how red the back of the kid's neck is- the color of a cherry, really, spreading up to the base of his ears like a sunburn. 

A Christmas song blasts over the speakers. Mariah Carey. 

Ugh. Bad taste.

"So," he says, leaning over the counter to watch as Peter wraps up his scone in a napkin and sets it on a plate. He looks like he's about to have an absolute _conniption_. "Peter."

He shoots upright like he's been shot, whirls around, and takes a step backward. And Tony had thought that his eyes couldn't get any bigger.

"How do you know my name?" Peter asks, his voice hushed and sharp. "How-"

"Nametag."

Tony pokes the piece of plastic with one finger.

"Right there. Nice smiley face, by the way. Very well drawn."

"Oh."

If possible, Peter's face darkened a few shades.

"You look like a tomato, kid. Deep breaths."

"S-sorry."

Tony shrugged. "No prob. This place have good coffee?"

"Uh, yeah, I think." Peter passed the mocha over the counter. "I haven't really tried a lot of it, but I'm pretty sure it's good. Here- here's your scone."

He took the plate in his free hand, squished the coffee between his body and elbow, and dug a wrinkled twenty out of his pocket. "How much is that?"

"Six fifty. Coffee's three bucks, scone's four."

"Wonderful." Tony handed over the twenty. "Keep the change."

Peter took the money with shaking hands, worrying his lip between his teeth. His pale skin had lost a few shades of color to where it was almost to the point of turning gray, and Tony was almost positive that it wasn't because of the cold.

"Sir, I can't- I can't take this, really. It's way too much."

"Not for me, kid," he said, waving a hand. "Pocket money. Go ahead."

"Sir-"

"Don't argue. Take the money, you look like you could use it."

Peter nodded wordlessly, exchanging the twenty for a few fives and shoving them into his pocket in a manner that was almost possessive. Tony looked him up and down- well, the part of his body that he could see- with a skeptical expression on his face. A few dark smudges marred the shoulder of the boy's blue t-shirt, and they didn't look like chocolate or dirt.

"You get hurt?" Tony asked, pointing at the marks.

Peter placed a self-conscious hand over his shoulder and shook his head. "Cranberry juice. It stains."

That was a lie. Tony could see it in the way his posture stiffened and his hands clenched into fists, white-knuckling to a point where it honestly looked painful. Peter had been hurt somehow- but he obviously wasn't interested in telling. Tony didn't push.

"Might wanna get that checked. Thanks, kid."

And then, in a typical Tony Stark fashion, he turns and leaves without another word.

**_______________**

_Tony Freaking Stark is sitting on one of the barstools next to the window._

_Tony Freaking Stark is drinking a coffee that Peter made._

_Tony **Freaking** Stark just **talked**_ _to Peter._

**_WHAT._ **

So maybe Peter isn't exactly 'living in the moment'. How could he be? His head is still reeling from the fact that Tony Stark, billionaire engineer and Avenger, just walked up to the counter and left him a giant tip.

What.

He almost forgets that he actually has another customer until she does the same thing Stark had done, rapping her knuckles against the counter and clearing her throat. Peter snaps himself back into the present and gets back to work, taking orders like a machine and trying to pretend like whatever had just happened hadn't actually happened.

He can't take his eyes off of the corner seat.

Stark's leaning over his phone, typing with one hand as he eats his scone. In the window in front of him, Peter can see that the rainfall has lessened and given way to something much worse- a dusting of powdery white, falling from the sky into murky puddles of water.

He winces and goes back to his work. Snow is really one of the worst things that can happen in his situation, especially when he doesn't know where he's going to be staying for the night.

Homeless shelters aren't an option because of the fact that he's still a legal minor and will be for the next three years (if he survives that long, that is). Awnings provide very little shelter and can lead to issues with police because of loitering or whatever. Alleys aren't safe in any way, particularly when there are people with the same predicament as him. Some of the larger buildings downtown have large enough heating ducts for Peter to lie down under, but none of the warm air ever drifts down to him and most of the owners don't like that sort of thing.

It leaves very little wiggle room.

Eventually, the line of customers trickles off as the work rush ends and people leave for there jobs. Peter takes to cleaning the counter (it's spotless anyway, but he doesn't really have anything else to do) with a rag and counting off the profit for the last hour or so.

It takes ten minutes for him to realize that the store is not, in fact, empty.

Stark hasn't moved from his seat. The plate beside him is empty and his cup sits on top of a paper towel- it has to be cold by now.

Without thinking, Peter slips out from behind the counter and walks over to the front seats. Tony's pretty much dead to the world, wrapped up in his suit jacket and focused in on whatever he's doing, so he doesn't see Peter until he musters up the courage to poke him on the shoulder.

"Um. Hi."

Tony raises an eyebrow.

"Hi."

"Can I- Do you want more coffee?" Peter asks, gesturing weakly to the forgotten cup. "I can get you a refill."

"Oh. Sure, kid, knock yourself out."

Peter nods and takes the cup, filling it back up as quickly as he can and dropping it back off with Tony, who's gone back to his phone. He waits for a few seconds, wondering if there's anything else he needs to do, before retreating to the back kitchen and pulling his threadbare jacket over his apron. Ellie and Kari, as per the usual, are both taking their break next to the oven (heating costs a ton, and even though they're relatively successful business owners, it's a bit much. Kari's counseling bills aren't cheap).

"Tony Stark's in your restaurant," he says quietly. "You know that, right?"

Ellie nods and brushes a curl out of her eye. "We were listening through the door. You're a total fanboy."

"It was hilarious," says Kari.

Peter fakes a wounded expression, smacking his hand over his chest and sucking in a sharp breath. "Miladies, I am _offended_."

"We're very sorry, Peter, but you're very easy to offend."

"Untrue. Rude. How dare thee."

"Okay." Ellie kicks the oven door closed. "So Tony Stark's in our restaurant. On his own. Very cool. Now, Peter Parker, if you've done what you came in here to do, I've heard that he has a reputation for blowing things up. Supervise."

"But-"

"Supervise."

And that's how Peter finds himself back in the main dining area, trying to clean off the tables and pretending not to notice the fact that Tony hasn't moved in the last half hour and is, in fact, watching his reflection in the window as snow piles up outside. Not in a creepy way, just... the word would be observant, really. The guy hasn't taken his eyes off of him.

"C-can I help with anything?" Peter asks, cursing the way he stutters over his words. "I mean... I don't really have anything else to do right now, so..."

Tony spins around in his chair and carefully looks him up and down. Peter suddenly realizes how messy he looks- from his untamed curls to his messy jeans and beat-up shoes, he looks like a delinquent. He flushes and looks down at his hand, wondering how hard it would be to melt into the floor right then and there.

To his surprise, Tony nods. "I don't see why not. Come on over here and sit down, kid. We'll see what you can do."

Peter goes pale and practically trips over his feet to do what he's told, taking the seat beside Tony and leaning over the table. Tony holds up a scrap of napkin with a scribbled equation written across the top in pen.

"So I've got this algorithm that I've been working on for my suits. Part of it's wrong. I don't know which part that is, of course, or it would already be fixed. You good at math, Pete?"

Peter shrugs and holds up a hand, waving it back and forth in a so-so motion. He dropped out of school in his freshman year of high school after enrolling early, so there's a possibility that he'll have no idea what's going on.

Well, he's already said it, so...

"I guess. Well... yeah."

"Great. Self-confidence is important, kid," Tony says. He claps Peter on the shoulder and pretends not to notice the way he twitches. "If you'd give it a look and see what you can find...?"

Peter nods, takes the napkin and pen, and gets to work.

**_______________**

Tony watches silently as Peter bends over the table, his lip trapped between his teeth in nervous concentration. The sound of a pen scratching away at paper fills the room. Outside, people walk around in the snow, which keeps getting stronger. It piles up on top of cars and on the sidewalks in deep drifts. The sky swirls with thick white flakes. It keeps getting darker.

He takes a sip of his coffee, which- annoyingly- is cold again. The fleeting thought of asking Peter to fill it up for him bursts through his mind, but he dismisses it quickly enough. The kid's working on _his_ algorithm for him. Voluntarily. He's been working all morning and deserves a break.

They sit in silence for about ten minutes, Tony with his coffee and Peter with his paper, before the latter tosses the pen down and hands Tony his algorithm back. He raises his eyebrows- he had been expecting it to take a lot longer- and took it, unfolding the sheet with steady hands.

"Already done?"

"Yeah," Peter whispers. "It was a really small mistake. Just a misplacement of one of the variables. I might be wrong, but..."

Tony looks it over and works the algorithm in his head. With every number, his eyes widen.

"Kid, this is _insane_. I didn't catch this any of the times I went over it."

"Maybe you just missed it?" He bit his lip. "I dunno."

"No, this is absolutely crazy. How smart _are_ you?!"

 _I'm a high school dropout. I'm a homeless kid. I work as a cashier_.

"Er-"

Tony's on a roll now, looking over the paper with wide eyes. "What the hell kind of school do you do to?"

_Another lie._

"Midtown Science and Technology. It's a STEM school."

"I wouldn't expect anything different from someone with your type of brains." Then, to himself, "A _STEM_ school, of course. Kids these days."

"I just worked it out," Peter protests, wide-eyed. His heart races in his chest. "Just like anyone else would've."

"I don't know any other kid who would've done something like that, kid. You... you're smart."

Tony takes another napkin from the dispenser and scribbles something out on the middle. He presses it into Peter's hand, folding it up and grinning.

"If you're ever interested in an internship or something, give me a call, okay? Don't hesitate. I've got nothing else to do."

And, with that, he grabs his coffee and leaves the restaurant, leaving a shocked Peter and an empty plate in his wake. Peter unfolds the napkin. His breath catches in his throat.

There, scrawled out in uneven handwriting, is a phone number and a little note.

_You're a smart one. Call me if you need anything._

_\- Tony Stark, SI_


	5. But Did You See The Flares (In The Sky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man grows in popularity with both the media and the citizens of New York, the sort of hero they didn't know they needed until they had him.
> 
> Peter Parker isn't a hero, and almost everything he does pushes him farther into a pit of self-hatred and hopelessness. Some mistakes are permanent- and very, very public. Public enough to get SHIELD and the Avengers involved.
> 
> Tony takes a homeless kid out to dinner.
> 
> The 'Find Spidey' initiative is dusted off and taken out of storage.
> 
> Nobody's thrilled.
> 
> Warnings: a bit of mild cursing, violence (two deaths, one of which definitely isn't pretty), a good bit of angst, and self-hatred. Read safely, lovelies.
> 
> All titles are taken from "Flares" by The Script.
> 
> As of this week, your resident whump gremlin has unheeded access to Endgame. Prepare to burn. :)

Snow sucks when you're swinging around in a thin, definitely-not-weather-proofed suit in the dead of winter. It also sucks when you accidentally get distracted by a pigeon (it happens to the best of us), miss your target, and go flying face-first into an air-conditioning unit.

Yeah, ouch.

Peter rubs a finger over his nose, trying to feel for a break. Something's definitely out of place- the bridge keeps clicking in and out of place and it makes him want to vomit. And he might be bleeding.

Judging from the wet spot on his mask, he's definitely bleeding.

Great.

He groans, pinching his fingers over the bridge of his nose and squeezing until he feels it pop back into place (disgusting). Bile rises in his throat at a sudden surge of pain; he's barely able to force it back down.

_Ow._

So, apparently, it's not a good idea to set your own nose. Who would've thought about that, huh? Clearly not Peter. _Wow, 4.0 GPA and you can't figure out what to do with a broken nose. Nice job, dumbass._

Peter shakes his head, quietly cursing himself, and scoops up a handful of snow from the corner of the roof. He had been moving pretty quickly in an all-but-deserted area, so nobody had been around to see him, which was fortunate. Rolling up the edge of his mask so that it sat just above the break, he presses the snow to his nose and hisses out another curse as it begins to throb.

Maybe ice isn't the way to go, either. Or maybe it's just the snow's fault- gray, slushy, and all-around _disgusting._

And he's just put it over his bloody, scratched-up face. That's like _inviting_ some sort of infection or something.

Brilliant. 

He shakes his head and drops his hand, flailing it around in a desperate attempt to get the water off and realizing too late that he's _never_ going to dry his uniform out. Bam, cold for the next three or four days.

"Nice job, Parker," he mutters. "Nice job. There's a laundromat visit in your future."

Whatever.

It's been a long day of Spider-Man-ing (and Peter Parker-ing, but that part doesn't really matter). He's had work from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon, so it hadn't been a particularly long shift, but then had come the crime-fighting. Five hours of being shot at, beat up, attacked. Five hours of random citizens throwing trash at him and screaming things about what he does and where he can go that he can't bring himself to repeat.

Five hours of wondering if New York is really worth saving.

The consensus is, after a mugging, an attempted car theft, two smash-and-grab burglaries, and a quartet of bicycle thieveries, yes. And it will always be yes. Peter knows that without a doubt, because it's his home. Fifteen years of living in the Big Apple don't just _disappear_ like nothing.

Although he has to admit, it doesn't always seem like a fair deal. Really, it's not like he gets much out of it except for a whole lot of pain, emotional stress, and pent-up anger that he doesn't know how to deal with.

Peter groans as his broken nose throbs again (the healing process takes time, after all, and he's not exactly operating off of a full tank; his metabolism affects all of his enhancements). A fresh wave of blood stains the front of his mask.

Cold water. Soap. A few hours of labor-intensive scrubbing.

That's the only way he's going to get it off, and he's _not_ psyched for that.

"So, Peter Parker." Peter spins himself around and, without thinking of where he's going, heads off in a random direction. "You've managed to get blood on your face, water on your suit, and a new understanding of how hard air-con units actually are. Good day's work." He steps off of a ledge and, instead of falling, walks down the side of the building without a single thought. Funny, how easy it is to adjust to things like that. "You could go ahead and call it."

_He won't._

"You could walk away and go to sleep early."

 _He won't_.

"But you won't."

He levels out with the pavement below, stepping around a pair of dumpsters and into a snow-filled alleyway. A cold wind blows in from the street, and he shivers- makeshift suits don't provide very much protection against rain, extreme temperatures, or any of the stuff he's dealing with, which is unfortunate. The fact that his suit is made of fabric- and _absorbent_ fabric, nonetheless- makes it all the more annoying when things go wrong.

Peter doesn't know how long he walks before he pulls himself out of his thoughts and back into reality. It must be a long time, though, because when he looks up again, he's managed to walk himself all the way across the city to his designated laundromat. Al's. A scrappy-looking neon sign stares down at him from above, almost _offensively_ orange, and he grins.

There's enough change in his pocket from breakfast to buy enough time and detergent to deal with the bloody, wet mess on his face.

Peter changes in a nearby alley. His switch is easy, and since he's been doing it for such a long time, fast. Into his backpack goes the entire uniform, thermal tee and all, and out of his backpack comes a t-shirt, rain jacket, and pair of simple jeans. He's walking into the laundromat three minutes later with a load of disguised clothes (throw in a few stray socks and a pair of underwear and nobody looks twice) and a subdued smile on his face, putting on the personality he's made up for the owner like a practiced con.

Oh, how far he's fallen.

Al is a sweet old man from somewhere in Brazil. He's missing a few teeth, one of his incisors is made of gold instead of calcium, and his face is covered in so many wrinkles that Peter can hardly tell where his eyes are. He sits at the front counter of his laundromat, no matter the weather, and greets every one of his customers with a big smile and- if they have a kid or look like they could use one- a lollipop or two. His reaction is the same when he sees Peter: he grins, waves hello, and passes a pair of dum-dums over the counter. Green apple and cherry.

Peter smiles back, takes the candies, and shoves them into the back pocket of his jeans. The only unoccupied unit is near the back of the store, next to the cat bed (why the _hell_ does every old man he makes friends with have a _cat?!_ ). He slips a few coins through the slot, tosses his clothes in, and takes a seat on the floor in front of the dryer with an exhausted sigh.

It's worth it.

It's worth it.

It's worth it.

The words play over and over in his head like a broken record, beating themselves into his brain. Peter bites his head, tilts his head up toward the ceiling, tries not to yawn.

It's worth it.

Right?

Pretending that he doesn't have any doubts is harder than you would think.

**_______________**

It takes thirty minutes for Peter to move his clothes from the washer to the dryer, and another hour for them to finish. He takes an extra fifteen minutes in front of the sink with a bar of heavy-duty soap and a hand dryer, trying to get the stubborn stain out of the front of his mask. It goes eventually, washing down the drain in a flood of pink-tinged water and leaving him with (surprise, surprise) a soaking wet mask that takes three-and-a-half dollars out of his pocket and double the time it had taken to get the blood out.

Happy Monday, then.

Al bids him good-bye with a gap-toothed grin, tells him to stay warm. Peter smiles back and tells him that he'll keep that in mind. Steps out the door into the cold.

Fades into the crowd, just another nameless face. Just like always.

He walks for hours, aimlessly passing through streets and parks like a specter, blankness in his mind and on his face. Nobody bothers him; they're all too wrapped up in their everyday routines to care about some kid with a bloody nose.

Not that he expects anything, of course, because he's learned not to think that anyone will help him. Not to _hope_ that anyone will help him.

A woman, eyes glued firmly to the glowing screen of her phone as she taps out a text, rushes past Peter and knocks her shoulder up against his. Normally, it wouldn't throw him off. Now, however, with a mixture of exhaustion and light-headedness clouding his brain, he can't seem to keep his balance. He falls like a downed tree, hitting the pavement so hard it leaves his brain rattling around in his skull and rolling over to try and protect the contents of his backpack. From what, he doesn't know.

Water soaks through his clothes for the second time. Instead of just his hand, however, it's all over his chest, spreading over his jacket and shirt and leaving him shivering.

He hisses, trying to ignore the chattering of his teeth, and pushes himself up to a sitting position. The crowd parts around him like a pair of waves, full of people who won't even acknowledge the fact that he exists.

What's new?

Peter dusts himself off, quietly cursing as another wave of ice washes over his bones and leaves him quaking. He's just about ready to lie back down and not bother to get up again when a hand, tan and rough and practically _covered_ with callouses, bursts into his line of vision so quickly he almost screams.

"Hey, kid, need some help?"

 _He recognizes that voice_.

"Kid? You in there?"

Peter looks up, blinking away an opaque haze (that's what happens when you get in the way of a busy woman, Parker), and comes face-to-face with the last person he expected to see.

Tony Stark is wearing a thick winter coat over what looks like an Italian suit. His free hand is occupied by a Starbucks- the _traitor_ \- and he looks like he's about to break out into a fit of maniacal laughter, as one does when one watches a teenager take a spill in the middle of a busy sidewalk. He pushes his sunglasses up on his forehead.

"Mister- Mister Stark?!" Peter asks, gaping up at the billionaire with wide eyes. "What are you-?"

"Doing? Helping you up, I think. Takes two."

Oh.

_Oh._

Peter takes Tony's hand in his own and hauls himself to his feet, grimacing at the way his tailbone throbs. He brushes a hand through his hair, trying to make himself look like he hasn't been through the wringer, and stops when Tony laughs and shakes his head.

"You look fine, kid. Except for that _nose._ " He pokes said nose with a crooked finger, wincing when Peter squeaks and smacks his hand away. "What is it, broken? Sprained? Can you even sprain a nose?"

He shakes his head, pinching his nose again. Checks to make sure it hasn't re-broken or anything. All good. "I don't- I don't think so."

"So, broken?"

"Broken."

"You get beat up or something?"

A few of the passers-by shoot the duo angry looks. Peter shrinks back, mouthing apologies, but Tony returns their glares without a second thought and- _honestly-_ sticks his tongue out. A grown man, and a _literal hero_ at that, _sticking his tongue out_ in the middle of a crowd.

 _Then again,_ Peter thinks, _you can probably afford to do stuff like that when you've got a shit ton of money and a PR team the size of a small nation._

It registers in the back of his mind that he's been asked a question. He blinks once, twice, pulling himself back into the moment, and nervously bites his lip. A light flush dusts his cheeks, pale pink and betraying.

"I- ah, I may have run into a-" _You're not tall enough to faceplant into an air conditioning unit, idiot. Figure something out_. "A lamp post."

Tony snorts. Tries to cover it up with a cough. Peter catches it anyway.

"You ran into a _lamp post?_ "

_And it gets worse._

"Yeah, I- I wasn't paying attention. So I kind of broke my nose on it. I think."

"You _think?!_ Kiddo, there's a _crazy_ amount of blood on your face right now. You look like..." He waves a hand at Peter's face, grimacing. "No offense, but you look like one of those victims in a slasher or something. You should probably get it looked at or something."

If Peter said that _that_ doesn't send a burst of fear through his nerves, he would've been a dirty liar. He winces, one scratched hand coming up to cup his nose. Sticky liquid drips onto his skin, warm and uncomfortable. Ouch.

"I don't think I-I can do that, Mister Stark, really. It's not that b-b-bad. I mean, just a little break. Can you... can you fracture your nose?"

Tony shrugs. "I dunno, I'm not that kind of doctor. Actually, I'm not a doctor at all, but whatever. I can tell when something's broken."

_He can't go into a hospital. They'll find out about him, about his powers and his identity and how he lives and then it'll be over, over, **over** -_

"Mister Stark, I can't g-get it checked out right now. I swear, it's fine, I'll be f-fine tomorrow. I set it earlier so it'll heal right."

He shakes his head, unbelieving, and polishes his sunglasses. "You've gotta be kidding me. You set it on your _own?_ That must've hurt."

 _More lies, then_. 

"No, not really. I mean, I iced it? I think that might've d-done something." _Stop acting like a child. He'll see you as a child._ "It didn't hurt that bad."

"The blood on your face says something different."

"Yeah," Peter says, self-consciously brushing a hand over his nose and pursing his lips as it comes away red. "This p-probably doesn't look too g-g-great. But seriously, Mister Stark, it just bled a lot. Doesn't even h-hurt anymore. Really."

Tony shakes his head, rubbing a finger over his temple like he has a migraine. He looks to one side, then the other, furtively watching the crowds, before nodding decisively and turning back to Peter.

"Have you had dinner yet? I'm guessing you haven't, because you look like you could gain a few pounds."

Peter lowers his head, shakes it once. Twice.

"Not really, sir."

"None of that 'sir' stuff. Tony."

He takes Peter by the arm and starts to lead him through the masses, holding him close as people brush up against them. Peter unconsciously leans into Tony's side, shrinking back and wondering _why the hell_ a billionaire's decided to take interest in him. _Him_ , of all people.

"T-Tony, then. I'm Peter P-Parker."

"Well, _Peter P-Parker_ , what kind of food do you like? Mexican? Pizza? Italian? I've got all night."

Italian reminds him of May, so that's an automatic _no_. Mexican and Pizza don't carry much weight with him, interestingly enough, even though they had been some of his favorite things to order in with his aunt and uncle. 

"Have you ever had Thai?" Peter asks, shivering in his coat. A drop of cold water slides down the nape of his neck to the spot between his shoulder blades. "It's really good."

Tony seems to think for a minute, striding across the crosswalk with Peter in tow, before he nods. "Thai sounds good to me. Got a favorite place?"

"N-no. Not really. I don't mind."

"Yeah, but you're _allowed_ to. Your choice."

"I don't have a favorite."

"Good. Decisive. Come along, young Parker. There's food to be eaten." 

**_______________**

They end up in a small chain restaurant in the middle of- ironically- Queens, surrounded by people who look like they should be in jail and a pair of men who keep eyeing each other's lips like they want a full make-out session. Tony, of course, is completely out of place among the commonfolk (so out of place that Peter wants to laugh). To his credit, he gets a table smoothly and orders like a normal person instead of someone who should be hanging out in his penthouse with Captain America and the like.

Peter sits across from him with his arms wrapped around his chest, trying his best to look as non-threatening as possible. He's shivering violently from his little swim in the puddle, but he doesn't want anyone to notice, let alone Tony.

Foolish of him to think that the literal _Iron Man_ wouldn't notice that he's vibrating.

"You cold?" Tony asks, looking up from his phone and quirking an eyebrow. "You look cold."

"N-not r-r-really."

The eyebrow arches up even further, and Peter knows that he's been made.

"Maybe j-just a l-little. Not that b-b-bad."

Tony sighs and strips out of his own jacket, passing it across the table along with a handful of napkins. "Put that on and use those for your nose," he says. "You still look like the victim in a murder mystery."

Peter protests for a minute, stating that he could possibly take the jacket, but Tony stands firm and he has no choice but to comply. He pulls his wet coat off and slips into Tony's, sighing as he warms up almost immediately. Presses the wad of napkins to his nose. They soak through almost immediately.

"So," Tony says, unfolding a laminated menu and reading over the first page. "What are you going to have, kid?"

Peter takes his own menu- he hadn't gotten to the whole 'eating' thing yet- and goes straight for the least expensive things there are, only to find that they're all so far from his price range that it's insane. His heart sinks.

"I..." He trails off, flushing yet again. Tries to bury himself in Tony's jacket.

"What's up?"

"I can't afford anything," Peter says. The words hurt his throat, but it does him some good to admit it. "I just... I can't. Thanks for trying, though, Mister Stark."

Silence. Then, a bemused laugh. Peter looks up in surprise to see Tony chuckling and placing the menu on the table.

"You thought I was going to make you pay for your own food?" He asks, voice full of barely-contained amusement.

"Um... yes? I, ah-"

"Kid, I said I was taking you to dinner. That involves food. I'm paying for your meal, so you can order whatever you want."

 _You don't deserve it_.

"Mister Stark, sir-"

"Seriously, Parker, just pick something off of the damn menu. I don't care how expensive it is. I could buy this restaurant if I wanted to- hell, I could buy the whole _block_ and still have plenty of money left over."

 _You don't deserve it_.

Peter pushes the thought way down into his stomach, right next to his guilt and every bit of emotion he's ever felt, and picks something off of the top (still the cheapest item, but he's trying). A starstruck waitress comes by and asks what they want, trying to pretend like she's not serving _Tony Stark_ until she's finished, when she asks for an autograph. Tony complies with his famous grin. Orders the pad thai. Peter gets the smallest serving of spring rolls imaginable.

 _Take advantage of this situation. Get something big, save it up for later. He'll never find out_.

Yes, he will. He always does.

When the food arrives, Peter tries his hardest not to eat like a starving animal. He takes small bites and spaces them out, leaving a few crumbs and trying to pretend like he's not thinking about licking his plate clean. 

"Thanks, Mister Stark," he whispers when they're leaving. He feels more full than he has in months, if not more. "I really appreciate it."

"No need to thank me."

_He'll never know how wrong he is._

**_______________**

He's in the bad part of Manhattan, dressed in his Spider-Man getup, when it happens.

_Peter's walking down the street when he hears it: a shrill scream, carrying across the buildings and echoing through alleys and streets. It's full of fear and panic- somebody is seriously in trouble, and she sounds like she might be hurt._

There's a screech somewhere down the street, a cut-off shout of pain and fear. Peter's instincts take over, just like they did the time before- he shoots an arm out and swings through the sky, a steady mantra of _danger danger danger_ streaming through his mind.

_He's off before he knows it. The street is relatively empty, with three or four pedestrians crossing the street ahead and a bunch of teenagers hanging out on a street corner. Nobody really reacts to the scream, which makes Peter want to scream (he would if he wasn't so busy worrying)._

The people around him continue with their day, looking up for a moment when another scream rings through the streets and quickly going back to their business. _Grade-A assholes._

_He just ignores them and focuses on the sound of his feet pounding against concrete. Beating a steady rhythm- left, right, left, right, leftrightleftrightleftright- until he can barely differentiate between the two, because it doesn't matter._

"Help! Somebody _he-"_

_What matters is the woman who just screamed again. This time, there are tears mixed into her voice, wet and pained as she _sobs_. Peter takes a deep breath without stopping to try and calm his beating heart, even though it doesn't do much. He's running faster than he should be, even for an enhanced, and he knows he needs to stop and take a break._

Nobody does. Nobody except for Peter, of course, who speeds up the second he realizes that the screams have turned from terrified to hysterical.

A gunshot.

 _No_.

He's breathing hard, heart pounding against his chest and pulse pounding in his neck, when he rounds the corner and sees it.

_Curly blond hair, tan skin, and blue eyes stare back. It's the same man, that's for sure, and he's active enough to have almost done what he did to Ben to the poor woman cowering against the back wall._

There's someone lying in the middle of the street. No, not someone- this isn't a person anymore. Blood spatters the pavement around its head, red and warm and familiar.

The culprit stands in front of the body. This time, he isn't wearing a mask. His blond hair and surfer-guy features are on display for all the world to see, just like the new KEL-TEC gun in his hand.

He's too late.

"You got out."

It isn't a question. 

The blond man jolts and turns around. Something in his glinting eyes spells _bloodthirsty_ in capital letters, and Peter knows that this isn't the same man he put in jail. He's harder, ruthless. And he's just committed another murder.

_A murder that you couldn't stop, dumbass. Nice job._

"How?" Peter asks, too aware of the sharp edge to his voice.

Instead of an answer, the man says, "You're the Spider-Man. They told me you were out here."

"I won't ask again."

He smirks, brushing a wave of curls out of his eyes. Smears a fleck of blood across his forehead. "Wasn't that hard when you've got connections like me. If you know the right people, they can't keep you locked away for long."

"You're a murderer, dipshit," Peter spits. "That seems like a no-brainer to me."

"I never said they let me out."

 _So he escaped and just **happened**_ _to end up near Peter again? Three violent crimes, all in close proximity. Can't be a coincidence._

"You know, there are guys in there because of you. Gargan. Toomes. Osborn. Me."

Osborn, busted for illegal experimentation on animals and himself.

Gargan, the Scorpion. Five months ago.

Toomes, a hopeful Chitauri weapons dealer. Peter had caught him in his first exchange and sent him away easily.

"I put them in there because I had to." 

Peter steps forward, cracking his knuckles in preparation for an inevitable fight. This isn't like the other times, when he would ask the criminal to put down their gun and come quietly to avoid a fight.

This time, he doesn't _want_ to avoid a fight.

That scares him more than the prospect of conflict.

The blond laughs and cocks his head to one side, looking Peter up and down with those hard, hard eyes. "Gargan knows who you are. _I_ know who you are, Peter."

Peter takes a step back, the air forced right out of his lungs. This man- Ben's killer- knows who he is. This could _ruin_ him.

"I don't know who you're talking about," he says, trying to sound as steady as possible. "That's not my name."

"Yeah, it is. Peter Parker, the only surviving member of the Parker family. I killed your uncle a while ago. Your aunt died a year ago. You live in a cardboard box or an alley or something, you work at Taste of Heaven coffee shop, and you moonlight as Spider-Man. I know _everything_ about you." He laughs again, sliding another bullet into the chamber of his gun and casually pointing the barrel at Peter's shaken form, right at his chest. "You've made yourself a lot of enemies, kid."

This is the first moment that Peter realizes what the consequences of his actions could be. How many people exist inside the shockwave of his little world, and how many lives a disturbance could end.

They know where he works; that puts Ellie and Kari in danger.

They know who he is, that puts the city in danger.

If they know about who he is, _how much else is there in their database?_ They could know about Al and Delmar. About Mister Stark. Ned. MJ. Their families.

Peter won't remember the fight until much, much later, and what he sees will make him want to vomit. All he'll be able to recall is sudden movement and the sound of a gunshot. Shouting. His own voice, shouting curses and insults. There's not a coherent thought in his mind. Just one word: _kill._

And that's what he does.

When Peter finally comes back to himself, he's sitting on top of a fully-beaten murderer with his legs wrapped around the man's midriff and one hand resting over his windpipe. The man's face is a mask of blood and bruising, open wounds trickling onto the asphalt like red tears. A pair of shining eyes stare up at him, full of fear and loathing and something else. Something threatening.

Amusement.

He manages to get two words out before Peter tightens his grip and, in a single, fluid movement, jerks his head to the side.

_"Flint Marko."_

A sick _crack_ echoes through the alleyway. Ragged breathing cuts off, leaving Peter's choked sobs behind.

In that moment, Peter isn't Spider-Man. He's just a scared kid on top of the body of his uncle's murderer, covered in blood and tears and a crippling amount of guilt.

_I wasn't supposed to kill him._

_But I did._

**_______________**

Tony's only just walked into the common room when he's swept off his feet, the breath knocked out of his lungs by a pair of booted feet. Natasha's on top of him before he can think. Her braid swings around her shoulders like a living snake. She pins him quickly and efficiently, shooting him a barracuda grin before turning to cup her hands and shout at somebody in the kitchen.

"I've got him!"

" _Natasha,_ we've said that you're not supposed to hurt Tony," Steve shouts back, his voice reproachful. "You should know this by now."

"Yeah, but it's hilarious every time." She shrugs. "You should see your face."

_"Nat-"_

"I know, I know! I'm coming!"

Natasha climbs carefully off of Tony, who glares up at her and drags himself to his feet. He rubs a hand over his sore ribcage. 

"Is there a reason for you attacking me and trying to kill me, or is this just for fun? Because it's not fun."

"It is for me. And I was supposed to get your attention when you came in, so I decided to do it the fun way."

Sam, draped over the living room couch with a magazine resting on his face and his feet propped up on Barnes' lap, swings himself around to face Tony. His magazine flutters to the ground and lands on top of a snoring Clint.

_A bunch of children. I'm living with **children**._

"Capsicle," Tony greets, sticking his head into the kitchen with an eye-roll when he realizes that he left his jacket with Peter (the kid probably needs it more, judging from the way he had been shaking in the Thai restaurant). "Can I help you?"

Steve looks up from a plate of salad, straightens out his white t-shirt, and shakes his head. There's something in his eyes that tells Tony it's not going to be good, and he braces himself nervously.

"Not me, Tony. Fury."

**_______________**

They play the video in Tony's favorite cinema room which, in his opinion, is a waste of his favorite space. It's violent, terrifying, and all-in-all one of the worst things he's ever seen- and he's seen a lot.

The Avengers had been content to leave Spider-Man to his own devices for over a year. They'd left him alone as long as he hadn't messed around with things that were out of his hands, and if he'd gone too far, they'd stepped in and dealt with the problem themselves.

Everyone in the cinema, from Barnes to Tony himself, knows that they'll no longer be able to ignore him.

The video's grainy, mute, and colorless. That doesn't detract from the fact that it's brutal. Spider-Man beats the guy with the gun into the _ground_ before snapping his neck and leaving his body next to that of his victim, face covered in blood and detritus from the street. A security camera had been able to catch the entire fight and SHIELD, the conniving bastards they were, had gotten ahold of the video somehow and had sent it to Natasha and Clint.

"As you can see," Fury says, staring into the camera with a cold expression on his face, "Spider-Man has crossed the line from 'vigilante' to 'dangerous'. He needs to be taken out. I'm sending the seven of you to deal with him."

Straight to the point. The Avengers watch in silence as Fury goes on and on about his risk factor and the NYPD and a danger to citizens, his words blurring together as the realization that a funny little guy like Spider-Man had done something so blatantly awful.

"Your deadline is three days. I want him in your custody by then so he can be dealt with. This is non-negotiable."

Clint, sitting behind Tony, groans and curses under his breath.

"Good luck."

The video cuts out. There's a moment of silence before the room bursts into chaos, with everyone and their mother shouting at each other. Lights flicker. Steve, surprisingly, screams out a few choice words before slamming his head up against the seat in front of him. Clint and Natasha huddle together, whispering back and forth like gossipy teenagers. A green vein throbs in Bruce's head.

Tony's the one to pull them together. "Everyone _shut up!_ " He shouts, standing abruptly and smacking a hand on the back of his seat. 

Surprisingly, they listen.

"I know this isn't ideal, but we're just going to have to deal with it," he says. "Spider-Man can't be left out there to hurt people like that. We'll bring him in and call Fury, get him off our hands."

"Tony," Steve says, shocked, "you're actually going to _listen_ to Fury? You're not even going to _question_ this?"

Tony sighs and shakes his head. "What is there to question? You saw the video, Capsicle. You saw what happened. This guy is obviously dangerous, even though we didn't think he was. We underestimated him."

"Tony's right," Natasha mutters. "We've got to bring him in. It's the only way."

The room is quiet for a minute, full of heavy breathing and weighed down with nervous thoughts. Sam's the next one to speak, and what he says rattles the entirety of Earth's 'Mightiest' Heroes.

"I thought Spider-Man didn't kill people."

Tony sighs, sits down. Puts his head in his hands. Something about someone like Spider-Man, someone happy and innocent, has him quaking in his shoes.

"So did I."


	6. Did You Feel The Smoke In Your Eyes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... apparently, some of Peter's actions reverberate through his home life. After a painful realization and a decision that takes away a good bit of his livelihood, he finds himself Spider-Man-ing through Queens in a desperate attempt to cool off.
> 
> The Avengers aren't going to let him.
> 
> Warnings: death, violence, a bit of blood at the end, a crappy ending, bad action scenes (I cannot write), and some self-hatred.
> 
> I know it took forever, lovelies. School just started and I smacked into a wall of writer's block. Take an extra-long chapter as compensation.
> 
> My tumblr is silver-bubbles.tumblr.com. I'll be pretty quick to answer questions there, so feel free to send asks. I'm also posting parts of this story and updates on my account. :)
> 
> Lots of thanks to @emraldmoon for their support, comments, and help!

Peter spends the night crying in an alleyway, hidden in the gap between a dumpster and the wall with his backpack clutched to his chest, sobbing so hard that his entire body shakes. Snow piles up around him, ever thickening, but he can't bring himself to care.

He killed a man.

 _You killed a man_.

Those last words- _Flint Marko_ \- were a name. _His name_. 

_You killed Flint Marko, a person who had a life. Maybe not a great one, but he had one nonetheless._

Sonder is a term that means "the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own".

Sonder also sucks, especially when that realization involves a man who not only tried to kill _you_ , but also succeeded in killing your uncle, an innocent, and who _knew_ how many other people.

Peter doesn't stop crying for several hours, tucked into his hiding place with tears running down his face and freezing against his cheeks. Stragglers drip down his neck and into his shirt, under the hem of every one of his layers. Seeping into the fabric. Spreading like bloodstains.

So many bloodstains.

May.

Ben.

His parents.

The body in the alleyway; somebody who would be found by the police and identified by someone in their family. Somebody who would be forced to add a bloodstain to their own roster.

Peter's was _dripping._

The night seems longer than it usually does. Peter lies there for hours, waiting for the sun to rise over the Manhattan skyline, staring up at the sliver of sky that he can see from his hiding spot with glassy eyes. Minute after minute passes, and when he finally decides that it's never going to be day again, that he's going to be _stuck_ in this eternal darkness, a ray of pink and gold pierces the haze.

Peter takes a deep breath.

Inhales.

Exhales.

Shivers.

Stands.

**_______________**

Ellie Marks has been worried before- after all, she grew up in New York. Worry comes with the territory.

Nothing comes close to the terror of Kari not coming back to the apartment above Taste of Heaven after heading to the grocery store to pick up ramen noodles and flour for the Christmas cookies.

Nothing comes close to the terror of getting a phone call from the New York police station at ten in the evening, just when she's ready to call them herself.

Nothing comes close to the terror of hearing a man's voice over the line and barely being able to register with what he says.

_Miss Marks? My name is Jefferson Davis, and I work for the New York precinct. I'm very sorry to tell you this, but a body was found earlier tonight and we're going to need you to come down to the station to identify it as soon as possible._

A pause.

_Ma'am, you wouldn't happen to know a Kari Devon, would you? We found an ID card and your phone number in her wallet._

Nothing comes close to the realization that Kari won't be coming home tonight.

**_______________**

It's not a good day for a spider-hunt.

Then again, is it _ever_ a good day for a spider-hunt? Do those even _exist?_ And _why,_ specifically, is _Tony_ supposed to be going on one? Touring New York is old news; he's done that a few times. There are only so many things you can do before the novelty wears thin and it's time to go back to bed. And those were the _voluntary_ tours, too.

This is _not_ voluntary.

So, apparently, Nick Fury himself has decided to get himself involved with affairs that aren't his own. Affairs that should be dealt with by those who are _paid_ to deal with them, like the police. Thunderbolt Ross. The vigilantes.

(Then again, it _was_ a vigilante that they were dealing with, so maybe these were special circumstances? Still. Sokovia Accords. Airport throwdown. Nothing's good enough for some people.)

The video had been brutal. Tony had found himself thinking about it in bed, cuddled up next to Pepper with an arm wrapped around her shoulders, unable to sleep because of a certain red-and-black clad murderer- _apparently-_ from Queens. 

So, true to his character, a lack of sleep leads him to the shared kitchen on one of the lower levels with a coffee cup in one hand, his phone in the other, and an untrustworthy gaze fixed on Barnes and Steve. Tony takes a long sip and ups his threat factor from a three to a six- still relatively low, considering how far he could go, but it's still early in the day and there's plenty of time for intimidating. 

The resident pair of super-soldiers, sharing a single seat across the table, keep their gazes steadily fixed on the screens of their phones. Clint and Natasha sit at the counter with their heads pressed together. Low whispers carry across the room, too blurred to be made out (but so obviously concerned that it isn't even funny). Sam, usually ready to crack a few jokes or chug an entire gallon of milk for kicks, sits silently next to the two spies with his head on the granite and his eyes closed. Bruce looks like he's ready to Hulk out.

A dark cloud hangs over the kitchen, but nobody seems ready to confront it.

Tony has been with the Avengers for five years. That's more than enough time for him to have figured out his teammates' habits, quirks, ticks, whatever. The exception to that rule has her head propped up on Clint's shoulder, red hair spilling down her back. She looks like she's about to keel over.

Natasha is like a closed book. Her secrets are more heavily guarded than the aliens in Area 51, and nobody- not even her closest friend- knows everything about her. Her habits are constantly changing to make it impossible for anyone to get a read on her, she doesn't _have_ any nervous tics (that Tony knows of, at least), and her expression is always schooled into one of calm nonchalance.

This isn't calm nonchalance.

Everyone in the room looks like they're about to drop or start crying, and Natasha looks like she's about to do both. It's no surprise when her voice, low and husky, is the first to clear the silence.

"He was supposed to be better than us," she says quietly, pushing herself away from Clint and standing. "He was supposed to be better."

Tony spins around in his chair and shoots her an annoyed look. Pretends not to notice how red her nose and eyes are.

"None of us knew anything about him. We still don't. He was never supposed to be _better_."

" _Tony-_ "

Natasha brushes a strand of hair out of her face and cuffs Clint on the back of the head, shutting him up effectively and mussing his hair. He smacks her hand away and runs a few fingers over his head, trying to stay as light as possible. Trying to keep the situation from escalating.

"When we got that intel from SHIELD last year," she says, setting her jaw, "I looked into him. Even after we dropped the issue, I checked security cams to make sure nothing was wrong. To make sure that he wasn't going to go rogue." A single tear slips down her cheek. "I thought he was safe. I thought he was _good_."

Tony rolls his eyes. "You were clearly wrong."

Silence. Nobody _ever_ tells Natasha off, because if they do, there's no promise that they'll live to see another day.

At least, nobody's ever done it before.

It takes thirty seconds of awkwardness to break every bit of resolve clinging to the seven strongest people in the world. Natasha is the first to move- always the first. She takes a few steps forward and, without warning, rears her hand back and _smacks_ Tony straight across the face, sending him tumbling into the table. Barnes and Steve surge to their feet, push their way between their teammates. Barnes goes to Natasha, gently eases her into her seat with calm murmurs and his metal hand. Steve helps Tony off of the table.

Tony tries not to hit her back.

"Everyone needs to take a deep breath," Steve says, one arm across Tony's chest like a seatbelt. "We're not going to fight about this. Natasha, that was uncalled for."

Natasha sneers. "I'm fully aware of the fact that I was wrong. I'm paying for it now, obviously. I didn't need to hear it from you."

"Yeah? Because it sounds like you did."

Tony picks his phone up off of the table and scrolls through a series of messages. He clicks on a small icon at the corner of one and pulls up a police report dated the night before, passes it over to her, and sits back with a smirk.

"You're not the only one paying."

Clint takes the phone from Natasha, scrolls a few times, and reads aloud.

" _Two bodies found in a Queens alley on December sixteenth by police force_. One dead by a gunshot to the head, the other severely beaten with a broken neck. The first victim has been identified as Kari Devon, aged twenty-three, by girlfriend Ellie Marks (twenty-four). The second was identified earlier this morning by policeman Jefferson Davis (forty-six) as Flint Marko (thirty-eight), an escaped convict. The latter was armed with a KEL-TEC handgun that may or may not have been the object used in Devon's murder." He winces and sets the phone down. "God."

"This is bad." Tony massages his forehead, eyes closed. "This is really bad."

"It's just one vigilante, Stark."

"A vigilante who the public seems to be _very_ attatched to. If this mess gets out, they're going to have a _cow_."

Natasha nods.

"He's right. There are at least half a dozen small-time vigilantes who won't be able to operate if the city finds out that one of their favorites killed a guy. Jessica Jones, Daredevil, Luke Cage. The Bleeker Street magician gang. Plenty of others whose livelihoods will be all but nothing if we don't keep this quiet."

"Fury wiped the videocams," Clint says. "Sent us the tapes. The police won't know what happened, so that'll buy us a bit of time. Hopefully."

"And there's a chance that this whole thing will blow over in time," Sam mutters. "Stuff like this happens all the time in big cities. Nobody'll give it a second look."

"There'll be _plenty_ of second looks if Spider-Man kills anyone else."

Steve brushes a hand through his hair, pats Natasha on the shoulder, and sighs. He looks all but defeated- and defeat doesn't look good on the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan.

"So we bring him in and SHIELD covers the whole thing up. The entire Avengers team up against one newbie. Seems pretty one-sided to me."

Bruce, who's remained silent for the entirety of the conversation, stands. A vein throbs in his forehead, suspiciously green and a bit concerning. There's a coffee stain on the lapel of his coat.

"I don't think it's going to be that easy."

**_______________**

Taste of Heaven is closed. That's odd in itself- even when Kari has breakdown or tough days, she always manages to pull herself together and come in for work. What's even odder is the sign on the front door.

Peter steps in closer, his borrowed coat (he never did give it back to Mister Stark, which is humiliating) pulled tight around his torso to try and offer a bit of protection from the cold, and leans in to read the piece of paper. Scrawled across the top is a single sentence in Ellie's messy handwriting: _Closed until further notice, God Bless and happy holidays._

The black pen is pathetically uninspired. That's the least of Peter's worries.

_Closed until further notice._

This is his _job_ , he thinks foggily, staring at the paper with wide, watery eyes. This is what keeps him _alive._ He's been trying his best to save his money, but food and other necessities take a good bit out of his wallet and the hardest part of the year (January, when the temperatures and his hopes of survival drop well below zero) is still coming.

This is _bad._

Peter digs into his backpack pocket and pulls out a spare key, fumbling with cold fingers to unlock the door. He gets a few odd looks from passers-by and ignores them, muttering heatedly under his breath and cursing his lack of hand-eye coordination.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

He walks in.

At first glance, the building looks completely empty. All the lights are off, the chairs are upside-down on the tables to make cleaning easier, and the door to the kitchen is locked. There are no pastries in the display case. 

The string of Christmas tinsel looks mournfully sad, drooping over the counter like a dead snake.

But Peter has enhanced senses- hearing, vision, smell. 

Someone's crying upstairs.

He locks the door behind himself, jogs through the kitchen, up a flight of stairs, and into the studio apartment that Kari and Ellie share. Their door is open, giving way to a fresh round of sobs and a ghostlike stream of music.

 _-Can't help falling in love with you_.

Oh. _Oh._

Peter steps into the apartment, carefully closes the door, and balks at the sight before him. The place is a mess- shards of glass on the floor, flowers and puddles of water all over the place, tissues strewn over every available surface. The couch is covered by a lumpy mass, which is in turn covered by a blanket and a mound of pillows. A head of curly red hair pokes out of the top, shaking and shuddering with every sob.

" _Ellie?"_

A pair of wide eyes peek out of the curls, watery and surprised, and _yep_. That's Ellie.

Peter steps around a vase that looks like it was violently smashed against the table, careful to make sure he doesn't step on shards of ceramic, and kneels down next to the couch. He drops his backpack and pushes a thick blanket away from Ellie's face, wincing at the tears dripping down her cheeks and soaking into the upholstery, adding to an already-sizeable stain.

"Peter?" Ellie asks, her voice thick with something that he can't quite place but can easily recognize. He'd heard it for the majority of the last year, after all.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Are you okay?"

Apparently, that's the wrong question. It brings on another round of tears (seriously, _so many_ ). Peter waits awkwardly for her to finish, passing tissues over from a half-crushed cardboard box and tossing them into a wastebasket.

It's only once she's finished that he notices Kari's absence.

"Hey, where's Kari? Is she... is she having a moment?"

 _Normally,_ _it would've been Kari on the couch with Ellie in Peter's place._

Ellie stifles a sob and shakes her head, burrowing back under the blanket. Her voice is muffled, but he can make it out. He almost wishes he couldn't.

"She's dead. Last night, I got a c-call from the p-p-police, and they t-told me..."

Peter's heart sinks. Not Kari, _not Kari_.

"T-they t-t-t-told me that she'd b-been shot. In a-an al-ley, on her way b-b-back from the grocery st-store."

_Not Kari._

"Two b-bodies," Ellie says, her words quiet and disjointed. "The other g-g-guy had a gun, and they th-think he's the one who- who k-killed..."

She can't finish her sentence. The room falls prey to silence, interrupted only by quiet sobs and the sound of cars speeding by on the road. Peter slumps over.

_Two bodies. One with a gun. Queens. Guy._

It doesn't take much to put two and two together. Peter slumps over, covers his face in his hands, and shakes his head.

This is his fault.

His fault.

_His fault._

He knows that it could easily be a coincidence. Violence is a commonplace occurrence in Queens, after all, and fatalities are nothing new. But both the signs _and_ the feeling behind Peter's neck, buzzing quietly, point to what he knows is true.

Peter adds another name to his ledger.

He had barely thought of Marko's first victim- someone he had come to think of as _the body_ , to his own disgust. Hadn't realized that, even in killing Marko, he hadn't won the fight- hadn't prevented a death.

Killing his uncle's murderer had just added another death to the roster.

"I'm so- I'm so _sorry_ ," Peter whispers, standing shakily and offering Ellie another tissue. "Ellie, I'm _so sorry_. Are you... are you gonna be okay? Um... financially, and everything?"

A pale hand snakes out from under the blanket, pushing it back so that she can sit up. Peter grimaces- her shirt is covered in tearstains and something that looks like pizza, and she looks like she's about to pass out. This isn't the fiery, outspoken Ellie that he knows. This is Ellie without her other half, and it's something that he wishes he had never seen.

_This is something that should be private._

Peter feels like a total asshole. He's been sitting in Ellie's home, making her talk about something that she probably doesn't want to talk about like an idiot. The woman's lost her _soulmate_. 

It's his fault that she's gone.

It's a split-second decision (and one that he'll probably come to regret), but Peter understands that grief can make it hard to do things that need to be done- things like making money and supporting yourself. It's the least he can do. So, with a heavy heart, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a neat wad of cash- all of his savings, amounting up to three hundred dollars after over a year of skimping on necessities- and places it on the table in front of Ellie.

"Here. Maybe that'll help a little? I, uh... I won't come into work for a while," he says, eyes fixed on the ground in shame. He can't seem to meet hers. "I'm sorry."

Peter leaves before he can screw up any more than he already has, his backpack just a bit lighter on his shoulders, the sound of Ellie's sorrow echoing down the hall and into the restaurant behind him.

**_______________**

It takes thirty minutes for him to change into the Spider-Man suit. To change into someone who _helps_ people instead of hurting them. Someone the city loves. Someone who is undoubted, _inbearably_ not Peter Parker.

Then again, maybe Spider-Man isn't the person Peter thought he was. After all, he never seems to save the people who need it the most.

Peter pushes that thought out of his head and focuses on the trajectory of each swing, but it stays with him. They always do.

**_______________**

"We've got a lock on him."

Tony looks up from his blueprints, rearing his hand up to hurl his pen (a nice ballpoint number with an open tip), and stops short. Steve looks like he's about to faint from a mixture of nerves and concern, the latter of which isn't an unusual expression.

It throws him off nonetheless.

Steve is supposed to be stronger than the rest of the team. Better. Braver. He's the one who pulls them together and keeps them that way, never letting anyone see how he feels unless it's confidence.

This isn't confidence.

"On who?" Tony asks, trying for a nonchalant tone of voice despite how nervous he is. "Gotta be more specific with me, bud."

Steve tilts his head to the side, unimpressed. "You know who, Tony. He's over in Queens. We're assembling the team and heading out."

"I expected more warning."

"We'd like to wrap this up as quickly as we can. Natasha caught him on camera ten minutes ago." He sighs. "There wasn't enough time for a proper warning. Suit up, Stark."

Tony nods and waves Steve out of his lab, folds up his blueprints as quickly as he can, and dumps them into a drawer before tapping his housing unit and waiting for his suit to cover him. It takes less time than he would expect- probably something to do with the fact that he _doesn't want to do this_ \- and by the time he's finished doing his diagnostic checks, Steve is already checking in over the comms to make sure he's not going to desert. He murmurs an affirmative, trying to ignore the mounting dread in his chest and head, and smashes straight through the nearest window without another word.

One of the many good things about being a billionaire is that nobody cares how many eggs- or windows- you break.

The rest of the Avengers are waiting for him on the sidewalk below, dressed in their mission suits and armed to the teeth. Tony lands hard, almost cracking the pavement beneath heavy boots, before standing and removing his faceplate.

"Seems a bit overkill for the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, if you ask me," he says, turning to Steve. "Thought he was a goofy guy. You're all armed to the teeth."

"So are you." Natasha shoots a pointed glare at his suit. 

"Nat's right, that thing's just as weaponized as any of our stuff. C'mon, I wanna get this over with before dinner. Pizza's on the way.

Clint unsheathes his bow and, ignoring the groups of gaping pedestrians, spins it twice before snapping it out to its full length.

"I've got stuff to do."

Tony nods, firing up his repulsors, and takes off into the gray Manhattan sky. Sam follows him from the air, wings fully outstretched, and the rest of the team follows from the ground.

Time to catch a spider.

**_______________**

It hits him when he's swinging over a few apartment buildings in Queens. No, not an idea or a realization.

A repulsor blast, which is about three times worse.

Peter's immediately thrown off balance. He lets go of his webs, shocked at the sudden pain in his ribs, and tumbles onto a nearby rooftop (he's lucky that he wasn't up any higher, or there would've been lasting injuries. Still, his torso isn't particularly happy with him). Peter rolls a few times to soften the impact, wincing as pebbles and sharp pieces of debris dig into his skin and cut his suit.

That's not his biggest concern.

It takes an insane amount of strength for Peter to push himself up to a sitting position, and even more to steady his breathing and pull his thoughts together. He sits for a minute, trying to block the pounding thoughts of _someone'stryingtokillmesomeone'stryingtokillme_. Winces at a thrum of pain in his chest.

Behind him, something- or someone- lands. The roof _rattles-_ actually _rattles_ \- and Peter's heart stops like he's been electrocuted.

He doesn't turn.

Another impact, another landing. This time, he flinches and slowly turns around, jaw clenched under his mask, terrified of what he might find.

_No way._

Iron Man- _THE Iron Man!-_ is standing on the roof, about thirty feet away from where Peter's sitting. Next to him is the Falcon- _W H A T -_ with his goggles and _wingsuit_ and-

"Spider-Man."

Iron Man's voice is cold and metallic inside his suit. Peter scrambles to his feet, dusting himself off, and watches the two men warily. Raises a hand in greeting (he's awkward and these are his _actual_ childhood heroes, what did you expect?).

"H-hi."

 _Dumbass_.

"I mean... what are you doing here?"

Iron Man takes a step forward, Falcon just behind him. From the way his lips are curled, he's not happy- and Peter feels like he should know why. 

"You really don't know?" Falcon asks, flicking a pair of pistols out of the holsters at his hips and carefully loading them. "Seriously, dude, this is something I think you should be able to figure out."

A sinking feeling weighs down Peter's stomach, accompanied by a buzz at the base of his neck. Danger. Something's wrong, something's _seriously_ wrong.

"I don't understand."

"Surprise, surprise."

The faceplate on the Iron Man suit flips out, and Peter almost has a _conniption_ , because _Tony Stark_ steps out and he's actually _on the same roof_ as Peter and it's _insane_. He's not wearing the suit he was when he came by Taste of Heaven, or the coat he was wearing when he helped Peter and took him out to dinner (that's hidden under a dumpster in Queens until Peter can return it), just a band t-shirt and a pair of oil-stained jeans. Tennis-shoes. He looks cold and tired and _angry_ , and if that doesn't give Peter a small heart attack, he doesn't know what will.

"You really thought we wouldn't find out?" He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Peter like he wants to murder him.

Murdered by Tony Stark. A cool way to go out.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter says. He holds up his hands in surrender and steps back, eyes nervously darting back and forth between the closest escape routes. 

_Oh, look, another lie._

There's a nagging feeling in the back of his head that, yes, he knows what they're talking about. He just doesn't want to be right.

"We saw the security camera," Falcon says. "We know what you did, and that's not something you can get away with."

_No. Nononononononono, this is bad. Bad. Bad._

Peter steps back again as Tony steps forward, stuttering in his steps and nearly falling back. Too late, he realizes that he's effectively been backed into a corner- he's standing on the edge of the building and both of the flying Avengers are out for his blood, which doesn't bode well for him. Even if he manages to get off of the roof, they could break his webs in the blink of an eye. It isn't safe.

"You don't know the whole story," he says quietly, staring at his feet. "I swear, you don't know what happened. Please just-"

"You still killed him, though, didn't you? He's still dead," Tony snaps. 

"And nobody comes back from that."

Falcon sounds a bit more sympathetic, but he's still planning on taking Peter out. Peter is decidedly _not_ interested in being taken out, thank you very much.

"I didn't mean to, I promise. It was an accide-"

"You _beat a man to death_ in a back alley, Spider-Man. You _broke his neck_. You might not have meant to do it, but we've got cold, hard proof that you did. And that break?" A pause. "It looks pretty intentional."

Peter shakes his head frantically and shuffles back another step, so close to the edge that his Spider-sense is going haywire. The back of his heels scuffs against the ledge. Falcon holds up a hand, a sudden shift in his mood, and holds Tony back.

"Stay where you are," he says, gesturing to where Peter's feet balance. "Don't step back. We can figure this out, but you're going to need to come with us."

Tears sting Peter's eyes, chill against his skin, freeze in the cold. He shakes his head again.

"You don't _understand,_ I can't! Please, just-"

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way." Tony. "I don't care which."

"We've got orders to bring you in and we intend to carry them out."

"Whatever it takes."

"But we would prefer not to have to hurt you."

Peter's been in the hero gig for long enough to know what a threat sounds like, and if that isn't one of them, he doesn't know what is. His resolve hardens- he isn't going in with the Avengers, no matter what he has to do- and settles into a fighting stance, fingers gently pressing against his webshooters, feet planted firmly against the concrete.

Tony's eyes grow colder. He steps back into his suit, which closes around him, and turns to Falcon with a nod.

"We didn't want to do this."

Peter gets ready to fight, to attack with every bit of strength he's got and escape, but the attack doesn't come from either of the people in front of him. It comes from behind, in the form of a large disc that slams into his back and knocks him to the ground, no air in his lungs. Peter gasps at the impact and flips over as quickly as he can, whirling around, and realizes that he's been watching the wrong people.

Behind him stand four figures, positioned in a straight line on the building behind him. He recognizes each one, and every face sends a pang of fear through his gut.

Captain America.

Black Widow.

Hawkeye.

The Winter Soldier.

His childhood heroes are trying to kill him.

Captain America catches his shield and clips it to the arm of his uniform, watching Peter with wary eyes. Beside him, Black Widow unclips a pair of batons from her forearms and flips them once, twice, three times. Electricity dances down their length, stopping just above her hands.

This is for real.

Another hit, this time from Iron Man's repulsors, knocks him in the shoulder. Peter staggers closer to the edge and barely catches himself before turning and pressing his webshooters in quick succession. Sticky material coats both of the hand repulsors and blocks their exit points, hardening in the cold air like melted plastic. He whirls and shoots a blast at Falcon, aiming for the tips of his winds to try and hinder flight, but the other man is clearly prepared- he dodges out of the way with minimal effort and squeezes the triggers of his guns in tandem, sending twin bullets at Peter. He's barely able to duck low enough and avoid getting shot (lethal force? Is that really necessary?).

This is, without a doubt, one of the most terrifying things he's ever had to do. _Meeting_ the people he's looked up to is one thing, _fighting_ them is entirely another.

Peter has never been so scared in his life. And that's including the death of his four respective guardians.

"I really don't want to fight!" He says, vaulting over the gap between the two buildings and flipping over the other four Avengers. "Can't we just talk this out?"

Cap is the first to turn, whipping his shield at Peter's head and catching it when it rebounds off of a stray heating unit. 

"You lost the right to talk things out when you killed that man," he says, glaring at Peter like he's been personally offended. "Stop fighting and come quietly. That's your only chance."

Black Widow, beside him, nods. "This doesn't have to end in a fight, Spider-Man."

_It always does._

**_______________**

The first thing that Natasha and Bucky notice about Spider-Man is that he's _tiny_. Absolutely minuscule, from his build to his muscle-to-bone ratio. He's got to be about half a foot shorter than Bucky and fifty pounds lighter, if not more, and Natasha can see the way his ribs cave above his midriff. He's skinny, that's for sure, and she can's see enough through the suit to tell whether or not it's healthy.

The second thing they notice is that he's _terrified._

Maybe it's some sort of spy-slash-assassin thing, the ability to tell so many things from the way someone speaks and carries himself (of course, Clint is a spy-slash-assassin, and he's the biggest idiot they've ever met, so that might not be the correct term to use). Spider-Man sounds young, and he sounds scared, and the fact that they've made him sound that way shakes them down to their cores.

"I don't know about this," Bucky murmurs, leaning into Natasha's shoulder as they watch Steve and Spider-Man beat up on each other. "I've got a bad feeling."

"You and me both."

"So we just sit here and watch? Do nothing?"

"Of course not," Natasha scoffs, tying her hair out of the way and spinning her batons gracefully. "I've got a job to do, Barnes. I'm not going to sit by and _not do it._ "

She stands and, shooting a dry grin over her shoulder, jogs over to where Steve and Spider-Man are sparring. It only takes her a minute or so to analyze the latter's fight pattern and jump into the fray, batons buzzing with energy as she whirls and dodges around her adversary.

That leaves Bucky and Clint.

"So."

Bucky turns, slightly annoyed, and tilts his head to one side. Clint is famous for his one-liners and snarky comments, and he's not interested in any jokes. Especially not in a situation like this.

"So?"

Clint waves a hand at the fight. "You gonna get in on any of that?"

"Dunno."

"Your ice-age boyfriend's doing it."

"Shut up, birdbrain."

"Make me, cyborg."

**_______________**

Peter knows that he's not always the best with knowing when he's in over his head. Sometimes, when May was still alive and he was living comfortably in his old life, he did things like take on too much schoolwork or add a few extracurriculars that he wasn't able to handle. But that stuff was always fixable- May would help him pick and choose, or he would clear some extra time to work on homework.

This is one of the times where he knows that he's completely out of his depth, and it's not something he can put off until morning. The Avengers are out for _blood_. There's no stopping them.

Peter takes a hard hit to the back of the head, courtesy of one of Black Widow's shoes, and stumbles straight into Captain America's shield with a resounding _bang._ Sharp pain shoots through his head. He trips on his own feet, falls hard, and rolls over onto his back just in time to avoid a repulsor blast that scorches the ground and leaves a harsh mark on the pavement.

Ouch.

The pain in his head is almost debilitating, and from the way his brain feels like it's knocking up against his skull, there's a pretty big chance that he's got a concussion. Peter pushes himself to his feet and throws a few sloppy punches in the direction of the people who are _literally_ trying to take him out. Misses Iron Man, gets Captain America on the shoulder, and hits Black Widow in the center of her sternum, sending her to the ground with a frantic gasp.

"Sorry!" He shouts, vaulting over Captain America and webbing them both to the roof before whirling around to give Iron Man the same treatment. "Sorry, sorry!"

Peter's standing over his three victims, checking to make sure that his webs aren't covering their mouths or noses, when a whistling sound fills the air. He can't move quick enough to react- can't get out of the way in time to avoid whatever it is.

The arrow embeds itself in his upper arm.

Peter screams, clutching at the shaft, and grits his teeth before pulling his resolve together and _ripping_ it out of his skin. Another strangled shout tears its way through his throat and out of his mouth, accompanied by a spurt of blood and a spike of red-hot pain.

He doesn't think, he just moves. His brain is on overload and everything's too much and he's in _so much pain._

Peter swings away, trying to ignore the wound in his arm, and leaves the Avengers behind.


	7. You Are Not Alone (Someone's Out There, Sending Up Flares)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After suffering some pretty intense injuries at the hands of the Avengers, Peter finds himself unable to go on, starving and freezing to death in an alley.
> 
> Tony does some searching and finds some interesting information on Peter Parker, a homeless orphan from Queens.
> 
> He also finds said homeless orphan, and I think you can guess where it goes from there.
> 
> Warnings: whump (like a legit whump I'm so proud), angst, light cursing, illness, near-death experiences, thoughts of self-hatred.
> 
> Just so you know, I'm not firmly Team Cap or Team Iron Man. I'm more Team Natasha, but since this story is Tony-and-Peter centric, it does take the Team Iron Man side.
> 
> My tumblr: silver-bubbles.tumblr.com

It takes five minutes for Peter to make it back to his favorite alley. Five short minutes. Five minutes that, to anyone else, would seem like nothing.

Five minutes is too long.

By the time he cuts off the web and swings into the streets, free-falling in the most dangerous sense of the term, the arrow wound on his arm is bleeding freely and not showing any time of stopping. His vision is blurry- cheers to concussions, then- and he feels like he's about to keel over from pain and exhaustion. It's too much, too much, too much. 

He was never meant for anything like this.

Peter staggers, tripping over a pile of frozen slush, and catches himself against the wall of a neighboring apartment building. Brick cuts into cold fingers, scrapes against skin, draws blood into frigid air. Peter doesn't feel any of it.

He's too numb to feel anything.

Red drips down his fingers, forehead, arm. Somehow, a single connected thought makes it through the foggy haze in Peter's head:

_Can't let anyone find out. Can't let anyone find out. Can't let anyone find out._

Somehow, he manages to slip out of his ripped, dirty suit and change into a pair of threadbare jeans and a long-sleeved tee. Tony's jacket- _Iron Man_ 's jacket- is hidden in another one of Peter's hiding spots, so he has virtually no protection against the cold. His resources are, as usual, limited.

Peter doesn't think he would want to wear Tony's jacket, anyway. Not anymore. Not after what he and the Avengers had done.

They'd been trying to confront him about Flint Marko and Kari- that's one of the few things that he's sure about. The whole "You know what you did" thing, added to the fact that _the_ Captain America accused him of being a murderer, makes it an irrefutable claim,

It's an accurate one, too. Peter _does_ know what he did, and he _is_ a murderer. He can't deny anything because it's all true.

 _Idiot_.

_Murderer._

_Worthless_.

Peter cuts off _that_ train of thought with an annoyed grunt and slips into the gap between the wall and the dumpster, squinting against the ever-darkening cloud against his head and gripping the wound on his bicep. Another stream of blood, this one heavier than the first, drips down his arm and sees into his shirt, chilling against the air. Peter shivers. Groans.

His stomach growls.

Enhanced healing is an upside of the Spider-Man gig (the Spider-Man gig that he probably won't be able to continue), but it has- unsurprisingly- a few kinks that are impossible to work out. Food is a must-have for almost every part of his enhancement, and when he doesn't have it, the less important parts just... shut down. Healing. Stamina. Strength.

It all goes away, and with the exception of his suit, Peter is left with nothing but himself. That's a lower blow than anyone could ever deal him.

Adrenaline and fear for his life had kept him going during the fight with the Avengers. Pure nerves and grief had kept him going while he had comforted Ellie. He has nothing to keep him going anymore, nothing to keep him moving. Nothing to keep him alive.

Peter slides down to lie on the cold, snow-covered ground and just... stops.

He's done his job for the day. It's time to rest.

He can feel the cold in his bones, slowly spreading through his body and taking him, limb by limb, to a place he's never been. His clothes are soaked through with freezing water. His hair is dripping. Everything is stiffening, from his muscles to his skin, giving up. Exposure.

Peter knows that he should be shivering.

Knows that he should be in pain.

Knows that he should be panicking, because he's on his way out.

But he just feels numb, and honestly, that's okay with him.

There are worse ways to go out.

He musters up all of his energy, rolls onto his good side, and prays for a quick exit. Darkness ebbs into the edges of his vision and, for one blessed moment, all the pain in his body bleeds out into the snow.

Peter closes his eyes.

Drifts away into the darkness.

Smiles.

**_______________**

"We lost to a guy in tights."

Tony looks up at Steve, glaring over the top of his computer, and nods curtly. "You think I don't know that? I was there, Capsicle. He webbed up my repulsors." He taps angrily on the keyboard. "Trust me, I know."

Steve groans, combs a hand through his hair, and shakes his head. "And you aren't going to _do_ anything about it?"

"Natasha's still trying to get the webbing out of her bow. Clint's replacing his arrows. There's so much _gunk_ in Sam's wings that he can't get them to move. My suit is down for the count. The only people who could actually go after him are you, Barnes, and Bruce, and I don't want a hulk incident today."

"So we just, what? Give up?!"

"Tactical retreat." Tony takes a sip out of his coffee cup. "We're leaving the issue alone for a little while so we can figure out a resolution."

"If we _leave it alone,_ we could _lose him_. Do you _want_ a murderer on the loose, Tony? Is _that_ what you want?"

"What I want? _What I want_ is a bit of _respect_ around here. This is _my_ tower, first and foremost, and I want _some semblance of control_."

Steve's glare darkens visibly. Tony tries to conceal his wince; it doesn't work.

"Respect is double-sided. You should've considered that before you split this team in two."

Silence. Tension fills the lab, thick enough to be tangible. 

"Get out of my lab."

Steve stands still for a minute, eyeing Tony with thinly-veiled disgust, before he nods and leaves the room without so much as a word. Tony watches him go until the blond can't be seen anymore. The door swings shut with an audible click.

"FRIDAY, lock all entrances to the lab and don't let anyone but me in or out without authorization. Send all phone calls to message. I don't want to be bothered," he snaps. Maybe it's unfair, how short he is with his AI, but it isn't like she has _feelings._

Then again, he does call her a _her..._

"Yes, boss," FRIDAY says, her voice just as emotionless as ever. "All entrances are locked."

A pause.

"Thanks."

"Of course."

Tony sits back down and tries to ignore the blank screen that stares back at him, eyes wandering around the room in a desperate bid of ignorance. He hadn't really been _doing_ anything when Steve came in- hadn't had anything to do, anyway.

"FRIDAY?"

"Yes, boss?"

"Pull up a file on recent murders in Queens, New York City. Keyword: Flint Marko."

"Requesting confirmation."

"Confirmed."

Tony waits as the information loads, staring at a rotating circle in the center of the screen, and chuckles when a few articles pop up.

"Twelve results found."

"Thanks."

The first article is bogus: a conspiracy blog about escaped convicts and ties to the government. Worthless stuff, really. A single block of text takes up the entire page, and it looks like the author doesn't know how to use commas (or any type of punctuation at all, really). He clicks out of the link after a cursory glance and moves on to the next.

This one isn't much better than the first in terms of usefulness. It's the same article that Clint had read the other day, so Tony's already got what he needs. He clicks out almost as quickly as he had the first with an annoyed grunt and a shake of his head.

It's the third website that actually contains useful info. At first glance, it has the same information as the second and nothing more. It's only when Tony takes the time to read the first paragraph that something actually stands out to him.

> "The first victim has been identified as Kari Devon, a twenty-three year old law student and co-owner of Taste of Heaven bakery in Queens. Devon was identified by her girlfriend, Ellie Marks (twenty-four), on December seventeenth- the day after her body had been found in a nearby alley. Marks has refused to recieve questions from any of our reporters and has stated that she won't be opening her bakery for a while, so more information may be slow to come."

He recognizes the name of the bakery; Taste of Heaven bakery is the cafe that he had gone to earlier that week. The place he had met that one kid at- Peter. The one he had given his coat and phone number to when he'd seen him fall in the street.

Huh.

A bolt of guilt shoots through Tony's chest- the kid had looked like he had needed that job, and now that the cafe's closed, he probably doesn't have anywhere to work. He'd been a shy kid when Tony had first met him, but he'd been _staggeringly_ smart.

It had been obvious almost immediately that he was in need of some help.

After a moment of hesitation, Tony speaks again.

"FRIDAY, I need search results on all Peters in Queens, New York. Go."

The AI is quiet for a minute. Tony waits patiently, eyes fixed on the ceiling out of habit.

"Four-thousand, eight-hundred and twenty-three results found, boss."

_That's a lot of Peters._

"Narrow down the search. Only teenagers."

"One-thousand, six-hundred and sixteen results."

_Still a lot of Peters._

"Run a description search. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Pale skin. Around five-seven, maybe five-eight."

"Two hundred results, boss."

_Whoa._

Tony thinks for a moment, one hand unconsciously combing through his hair, before it hits him.

"Look through the most recent employment records for Taste of Heaven bakery in Queens. Hack 'em if you have to."

A pause. The AI takes longer this time (hacking small businesses is easy for her, but it's still hard to break through firewalls and decrypt data).

"One result found, boss."

Tony grins. Rubs his hands together. "Alright, FRI, gimme. Send the results to my computer and pull 'em up, best options first."

"Will do."

The results pop up on his screen within two seconds, blue against a bright white background. He clicks the first option and almost _squeals_ with delight.

Peter's face stares back at him, pale and nervous, and Tony can't help but clap.

The article is a CPS record from a year ago, dated in early October. Peter looks a bit younger, a bit healthier.

He doesn't look happy, though.

Tony can see tear tracks under his eyes, a blotchy nose, and savagely-bitten lips (there's a bit of blood on the lower one, like nobody bothered to clean him up). The picture is a recent school photo from Midtown School of Science and Technology.

_Smart kid._

He reads on. 

> _Name: Parker, Peter Benjamin_
> 
> _Date of Birth: 10 August 2004_
> 
> _Parents: Parker, Mary Fitzpatrick (DECEASED); Parker, Richard (DECEASED)_
> 
> _Guardian(s): Parker, Benjamin (DECEASED); Parker, May Riley Jameson (DECEASED)_
> 
> _Current Guardian(s): N/A_

Oh.

_Oh, poor kid._

Tony keeps reading, trying to ignore the growing sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. 

> _School Enrollment: Midtown School of Science and Technology (TERMINATED 18 October 2018)_
> 
> _Grade Point Average: 4.0_
> 
> _Address: N/A_
> 
> _Current Status: Declared missing 12 October 2018, search terminated 12 November 2018 by Queens Police Department_

The article ends there with a signature from one of the higher-ups at CPS. Tony shuts his computer down, numbly staring at the dark screen, heart racing.

He should've known what was going on the minute he saw a _kid_ working the counter of a restaurant. He should've known when he found him in the middle of a sidewalk when he should've been at school. If not then, he should've _at least_ realized that something was going on when he saw the state of Peter's clothes and felt how skinny he was. How easy it was to help him up.

He should've done something.

Maybe he still can.

**_______________**

Tony finds himself outside of Taste of Heaven, standing in an ever-worsening shower of snow, just like he had the week before. Slush seeps into his shoes and socks, all the way to his skin. He shivers.

He _has_ to find this kid.

Taste of Heaven's windows are dark and the front door is locked. Tony has to admit that he feels bad about bothering Ellie the day after her girlfriend died, but it's getting colder outside as the day wears on and the sun disappears. If he leaves her alone, there's a good chance that Peter won't make it through the night (it's shaping up to be one of the coldest yet) and if bothering someone in mourning can save someone else's life, he'll do what he has to do.

Gathering up his courage, Tony knocks a hand against the front door.

He waits.

There's no reply. People are staring at him- after all, it's not every day that you see _Tony Stark_ hanging out in front of a closed bakery- but he tries to ignore them, turning his eyes dutifully to the doorknob and waiting for a reply.

He knocks again.

This time, there's a reaction: a muffled ' _be there in a minute_ ' from deep within the store. Tony winces at the nasal tone and bites his lip. He _hates_ this.

He'd never met the women who owned the store- just Peter. He had heard their voices, yeah, but he hadn't actually _seen_ them. Somehow, Ellie Marks looks just like he thinks she would. 

Pale-faced, red-haired, and petite, she's just as fairylike as anyone he's ever seen. The one thing disrupting her aura is the redness around her eyes and lips and the way she's dressed (old jeans and a too-large t-shirt that looks like it's been pulled out of the dryer a few minutes early). Tony steps back as she unlocks the door, hands clasped respectfully behind his back, and watches as her expression drops when she sees who he his.

"Tony Stark."

"Miss Marks."

"We're closed," she says flatly, gesturing toward a messy sign. "If you hadn't noticed."

"I, ah..." _Dammit, Stark, pull yourself together_. "I'm not here for any food. I needed to talk to you. Life or death."

Ellie looks him up and down suspiciously, from his soaked shoes to his heavy coat, before beckoning him inside. He steps in and waits patiently as she locks the door, then follows her into the back room without a word. She waves a hand at an empty stool before sitting down, expectant eyes fixed on his face.

"If this is about Kari, I'm not interested in talking to you and you might as well go ahead and leave. I'm not talking about her right now."

Tony nods wordlessly and unbuttons his coat. "That's not what I need to know about, Miss Marks-"

"Ellie."

" _Ellie,"_ he amends. "But I'd like to offer my condolences, anyway."

Her jaw sets visibly. A vein pops in her temple. For a second, it looks like she's about to blow up on him and he's going to have to leave. Find another way to help Peter.

"Thanks."

Tony breathes a sigh of relief. 

"I'm actually here to talk about another person who was supposed to be working here. Peter Parker, if I got the name right."

"You wanna know about the _kid?_ " Ellie scoffs and shakes her head. " _Why?!"_

"I'm afraid that's confidential information. I just need to-"

"Nope. You tell me why you want him or you're not getting a single thing out of me, _Tony Stark_."

The way she spits his name, almost like it's venom, hits Tony harder than he's ever been hit before. He jolts back- _physically_ jolts back- and blinks.

"Ellie..."

From the look in her eyes, she's not taking anything. There'll be no getting her to budge, and if Tony's being honest, he's grateful to see that Peter has someone in his corner. Someone to help him. 

"I'm worried about him," he caves, eyes fixed to the floor. "He made an impression on me and I'm worried that something's going on with him, that he's in trouble. I just want to help him, I swear." There's a moment of silence. Ellie looks him up and down again, narrow-eyed and tight-lipped. Tony's ready to trash this whole thing and go find someone else to help him when she nods and leans back in her chair, one arm resting on an immaculate counter.

"Peter's been working for me and Kari for about a year and a half now. He's a good kid; doesn't complain about anything we tell him to do, takes whatever pay we can give him, works overtime and runs errands without a problem." She grits her teeth. "He doesn't like to talk about his personal life, so there's not much I can give you there. He says he's in college, but we both- but I know he's lying."

"He's fifteen," Tony mutters. "Just a baby."

"He doesn't act like one. There was this one day, a little under a year ago, where he came into our shop at ten at night." Tony winces and leans in, eyebrows furrowed. Ellie taps a foot nervously against the ground. "Kid was soaking wet, freezing- looked like he'd just walked through a hurricane to get to us. Told us that his parents had sent him out to get medicine for his sick little sister, the little lier that he is."

"Why do you think he's a lier?"

"He said he needed amoxicillin and that she had the flu. Amoxicillin is an antibiotic. The flu is a virus. No parents that I know would send their kid out in the middle of a freezing rainstorm to get medicine for the other."

"So you don't think he has a little sister or parents?" Tony asks, carefully gauging Ellie's expression to see how well she knows Peter.

"I _know_ he doesn't have a little sister or parents, Stark, you can trust me there."

And, for some reason, he does.

"When did you last see Peter?" He asks.

Ellie's eyes darken. She fiddles with the hem of her t-shirt and shakes her head, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. Tony's heart drops into his stomach.

"This morning. The idiot came upstairs while I was crying, dug three hundred dollars out of his backpack, and told me he wouldn't come back to work for a while before leaving. I didn't do anything about it, of course, just went back to my hiding spot and cried for a few more hours. Dunno what to do with the money. Left it on the counter in my apartment."

 _And the plot thickens_.

"Sounds like a generous kid."

"He is," Ellie says fondly. "I hope he's okay. If you find anything, you'll let me know, right? You'll call?"

Tony nods and stands, holding a hand out to shake. "Of course, Ellie. Again, I'm sorry for your loss. Is there anyone else you think could help?"

She thinks for a minute before nodding and taking his hand in her own. "Delmar. He owns Delmar's Deli-Grocery in Queens; it's this little bodega thing with cheap food. Peter told Kari that the owner would give him free stuff when he came in sometimes, so I would try there if you really need to locate him fast. I don't know how long it's been since he was there, though, so it could be a dead end."

_This woman is a wealth of information._

"Thanks. Give me a call if you decide to reopen, I bet some of the guys back at the tower wouldn't mind some good breakfast and I'd love to talk to you again."

Tony leaves her there, in the kitchen of her bakery, with a little smile on her face and a few less tears in her eyes.

Maybe this do-gooding thing isn't that bad.

**_______________**

Delmar's Deli-Grocery is a tiny bodega on the corner of a pair of busy streets, and it couldn't be more different than Taste of Heaven. Where the bakery has nice wooden floors and warm paint colors, Delmar's has linoleum and chipped subway tiles. Tony stops outside of the front door, staring up at the sign with wide eyes and trying to ignore a second barrage of curious glances. The people in this area aren't the type he's used to- honestly, that's probably why Peter likes (liked) it so much. They're like him.

Tony steels himself, takes a deep breath, and steps into the deli.

There's a surprisingly long line at the front desk. At least, Tony thinks it's long. Maybe this sort of thing is normal for people in Queens? He wouldn't know.

The guy at the counter turns when he hears the bell ring. His eyes fall on Tony and widen, the usual reaction when people realize that they've got Iron Man in their establishment, and he's quick to pull one of his employees to the register and make his way over without drawing any attention.

"Are you Delmar?" Tony asks, eyebrows raised.

"Ah... yes?" The man says, his sentence phrased as a question instead of an answer. "You're... you're Tony Stark."

"Correct. Listen, I'm going to cut straight to the chase and tell you what I'm here for. You know a kid named Peter Parker? Because I've got sources that tell me he comes here sometimes?"

If possible, Delmar looks even more confused than before. He nods slowly, surprise changing to suspicion, just like Ellie. The kid _has_ to be something if he's got this many people behind him.

"Who's asking?"

"Someone who wants to help him and knows that you've had contact with him before. I need you to tell me what you know," Tony says briskly. "I don't plan on hurting him, if that's what you're thinking."

Delmar shrugs. He's easier to get through to than Ellie, clearly, but whether that's a good thing or a bad thing is unclear.

"Kid comes into my shop once or twice a week to get a sandwich. I give him extra or don't make him pay, whatever I'm in the mood for. He doesn't mess around with any of my patrons. Simple."

_Not helpful._

"Have you noticed anything about him? Anything weird? Do you know where he lives?"

"He's secretive. Wears scrappy clothing, quiet, too skinny to be healthy. Dunno where he lives. That's all I can give you, Mister Stark."

_Insanely unhelpful._

Tony nods and steps back, thanking Delmar for what little time he's been given, and leaves the deli with an extra sense of urgency in his step. He hasn't gotten anything from Delmar or Ellie about where Peter could be- nothing about what he could be doing or if he could be in danger- and there's nothing to tell him that something's legitimately wrong, but he's got this gut feeling that Peter's in trouble.

He just has to find him first.

**_______________**

It's worse when Peter wakes up.

So much worse.

There's a stabbing pain in his stomach, shooting like fire through his body and crippling his ability to think. He doesn't bother to open his eyes, curling in on himself as much as he can without hitting his head on the dumpster in a desperate attempt to quench the throbbing.

How long has it been since he last ate?

Too long, that's for sure. He's not present enough to string together a pair of coherent thoughts in the blurry haze that is his mind, but he knows that he can't make it much longer without food and water.

Water.

Isn't snow made of water?

It's a bad idea. Peter _knows_ , even though everything is so disjointed that he can't think straight, that the slushy mess on the ground isn't going to help him. But he's _so_ thirsty, and _so_ hungry, and he just wants to feel okay again.

It takes the majority of his remaining strength to sit up. He props himself up against the dumpster, one elbow against the ground and the other tucked into his side, and looks down at the ground.

The majority of the snow in his hideout is soaked through in red. A lot more red than Peter thought had come out of his arm, but whatever. Maybe it's paint? Paint is pretty. May's room had been painted light yellow; he remembers that.

_What is he thinking?!_

Peter shakes himself, wincing, and reaches an unfeeling hand down into one of the last piles of unblemished snow in the alley (it isn't that unblemished, really, but there isn't any blood, so he's calling it a win). Cold pinpricks break through the numbness and stab his palms.

He lifts it to his mouth.

Takes a deep breath.

Gulps a handful of two-day-old snow down as fast as he can.

Immediately, he knows that he's made a mistake. It burns going down, scrapes against his throat like rocks. His mouth smarts with the taste of pollution. It's disgusting, not to mention painful. The feeling of sickness worsens almost immediately.

Peter can't support himself anymore. He keels over, slamming his head against concrete with a brain-jarring _thump_. For the second time in one day, he can feel his pupils dilating.

He can't move, can only stare up at a darkening sky with wide, pain-filled eyes and watch as gray turns to purple and purple to black.

His options have run out.

**_______________**

Tony's walking down a dark street on his way back to the tower when he hears it: a low moan, echoes bouncing off of the surrounding buildings like a ball bounces off of walls. He stops short. The hair stands up on the back of his neck and prickles against his skin.

Something's wrong.

It could be anything- a stray dog, the victim of a mugging, a group of teenagers trying to get a laugh out of scaring people. He could walk right by and never think aobut it again. So easy.

That's not true.

Tony tucks his hands into his pockets and peers around the corner into a nearby alley only to realize that it's much too dark to see anything. He pulls out his phone and flips on the flashlight, waving it around in a desperate attempt to get a location on whatever made the noise.

Nothing.

Another moan, this one mingling with tears and pain, sounds from the back of the alley. Tony jumps, eyes wide, and turns his flashlight on its origin: an ordinary green dumpster covered in stains and snow, trash scattered around its wheels.

"Hello?" Tony asks, his voice wavering slightly in the silence. "Is anyone back there?"

The groaning stops, replaced by ragged breathing and quiet sobs. 

_So it's a person, whoever it is._

He steps closer, shoes scuffing against the uneven ground. "I'm here to help you, I promise. Where are you?"

There was no reply, just a quiet whimper from behind the dumpster.

_Behind the dumpster._

"O-kay, then," Tony whispers, stepping closer and resting a hand against the green metal. "Okay." He raises his voice. "I'm going to move the dumpster so I can get to you, okay? Hold on back there. I'm going to help you."

The ragged breathing continues. It isn't a reply, but the person- whoever they are- sounds like they're beyond conversation, so Tony nods and takes a deep breath.

It takes a good bit of strength to shove a full dumpster out of the way without an Iron Man suit, as he learns. Tony shoves his shoulder against one side and braces himself before pushing with all his might, feet scrabbling against the ground. He's sweating in the cold air by the time it's more than two feet away from the building, which is a narrow fit for anyone and a nearly-impossible fit for him.

He does it, nonetheless.

Tony shines the flashlight into the gap that's left behind, eyes narrowed against the oppressive darkness. There's a muffled yelp from the farther side, an alcove of black, tucked away from his sight.

He raises the flashlight and almost drops it.

The area behind the dumpster is filled with russet snow, stained the color of blood. A small form lies, curled up, about five feet away from where Tony stands. Pale limbs stick out of a soaked blue t-shirt, and they're shaking so hard that, for a minute, Tony thinks they might actually be vibrating.

_No, you absolute dumbass, it's twenty freaking degrees outside and they're freezing. Pull yourself together._

He does.

Tony's on his knees beside them before he knows it, tugging his coat off in a desperate attempt to warm this poor person up. He gently reaches out, placing worn hands on shivering skin, and rolls them over as gently as he can to look for the source of blood.

He finds the last thing he had expected.

A pair of deep brown doe eyes stare up at him, watery and terrified and so full of pain that it almost _hurts_ to look into them. Light glances off of gaunt cheekbones and parted lips. Dark hair hangs limp around an all-too-recognizable face.

Peter Parker.


	8. Did You Break But Never Mend? (Did You Cry So Hard You Thought it Was The End?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finds a half-dead teenager in an alley and, not knowing what else to do, calls on Steve Rogers for help.
> 
> Peter doesn't know what's going on, and at this point, he doesn't know if he wants to.
> 
> Warnings: Semi-graphic depictions of an injury, vomit (emeto), cursing, short chapter, and all-around chaos.
> 
> IMPORTANT: Many of you probably already know about the sony/marvel split that might be taking peter parker out of the mcu. Myself and several other writers on tumblr have already made a joint decision: we're ignoring it and writing our damn irondad+spiderson fanfics no matter what happens because screw sony/marvel. :)

_Tony's on his knees beside them before he knows it, tugging his coat off in a desperate attempt to warm this poor person up. He gently reaches out, placing worn hands on shivering skin, and rolls them over as gently as he can to look for the source of blood._

_He finds the last thing he had expected._

_A pair of deep brown doe eyes stare up at him, watery and terrified and so full of pain that it almost hurts to look into them. Light glances off of gaunt cheekbones and parted lips. Dark hair hangs limp around an all-too-recognizable face._

_Peter Parker._

Tony's breath stops in his throat like a car at a red light, squealing to a halt and expanding until he feels like there's no air in his lungs. His head spins, whirling at dizzying speeds as he gapes at the kid in his arms.

The kid in his arms.

_Kid._

Peter's in bad shape, obviously; he's practically _skeletal_ and looks like he's about to kick it, right there in the middle of a scrappy Queens alley. His entire body spasms in Tony's grasp, shaking like he's having some sort of a seizure. His teeth chatter in his mouth, clenching so hard that it looks like he's going to break them.

And Tony hasn't even _thought_ about where the blood is coming from, because if the color of Peter's shirt is any indication, it's all his. And there's a _lot_ of blood.

The kid spasms again, jolting up into the air before coming down, hard, against Tony's legs and knocking his head on the ground. The impact shocks him out of his panic-induced reverie and back into reality.

A reality where there's a _literal child_ bleeding out on his lap.

 _You're Iron Man_ , Tony scolds himself. _Don't fail this kid._

He takes a deep breath and leans over, fingers dancing over Peter's arms and torso in a desperate attempt to find the source of the bleeding. Peter groans and twitches under his hands, writhing and quivering like he's about to explode. Tony hisses through his teeth and shakes his head.

Poor kid.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he soothes, brushing a hand over Peter's shoulder and down his arm. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay."

The words don't seem to register. Peter watches him with glazed eyes, dazedly staring up at a spot between Tony's eyebrows like it's the most interesting thing in the world. His pupils are enlarged- dilated to about twice their normal size, which is a pretty big indicator for a concussion.

Can't just catch a break.

Tony blows out a deep sigh, whistling through his lips, and wipes a hand over his forehead. This isn't his area of expertise (he's normally the one that get hurts and has to be cared for, and it's surreal to be on the other side of the mirror).

He's pretty much hopeless.

"M'ss'r S'ark," Peter slurs. He's dropping vowels left and right. Not a good sign.

Tony nods and places a hand on his cheek, wincing and pulling back almost immediately. He's burning up with a fever, and a high one at that.

So maybe it's bad.

"M'ss'r _S'ark_."

The urgency in Peter's voice pulls Tony back into the moment. He twitches and looks down, raising an eyebrow at how _needy_ he sounds. The kid at the cafe hadn't sounded _needy_. The kid on the street hadn't sounded _needy._

Then again, Peter hadn't been in a situation close to this one either time. Factor in the blood and fever and Tony realizes that maybe Peter _is_ needy.

He's a homeless kid. A kid who needs affection and medical care and an adult's help. A kid who needs a roof over his head.

All things that Tony can provide.

It's a split-second decision, and it might not be a _great_ one, but it's one that needs to be made. Tony lets go of Peter with one hand and fishes around in his pocket for a moment. His fingers curl around hard plastic and glass, and he pulls out his phone, worrying his lip between his teeth.

He calls the first person in his contacts.

Lifts it to his ear.

_One ring._

_Two rings._

_Three rings._

"Hello?"

Tony breathes a sigh of relief at Steve's voice, slumping over and trying not to laugh from the absolute _absurdity_ of the situation. Here he is, crouched in an alley in the middle of the night with a dying child in his lap, calling up the one person he promised he would _never_ be dependent on again. The one person he would _never_ call.

Well, that was obviously a lie.

Steve, clearing his throat nervously, repeats himself. "Hello? Tony, are you there?"

"Yeah, Capsicle," Tony says. "Sorry about this, but I'm going to need your help."

The words scrape his throat like sandpaper. He almost chokes.

"Are you okay? Is there an emergency? Tony, are you hurt?"

"Nah, fine. S'not me, anyway."

An audible sigh carries over the line. On the ground, Peter lets out a whine and rolls over, curling around his stomach with a grimace. Tony rubs a hand over his shoulder and shushes him quietly, trying for a comforting tone of voice. There's no reaction.

"Is someone hurt? I can't hear you."

"Yeah, I'm gonna need you to come down here and pick us up as soon as you can."

"Is it bad?" A pause. Then, shouted at someone on Steve's side of the phone, " _Shut up, I'm on the phone!"_

Tony snorts. There's a snapped response, then a curse, then silence.

"I'm back, I'm back. Sorry. Where are you?"

He doesn't know. He hadn't bothered to check- of course he hadn't, who's he kidding? The hurt kid had taken priority the minute Tony had approached him. He looks around, trying to find some sort of sign of where he is, and comes up with nothing. It's too dark to see anything, anyway.

"I'm somewhere in the bad part of Queens, that's all I know. I was on the way back to the tower, so it has to be close. Can you track my phone or something?" He asks, patting Peter on the shoulder when he groans and twitches. 

"I can try. Is there any way you can get back to us on your own?"

Tony looks down at Peter and winces. His face is paler than it was only minutes earlier and his eyes are closed. He looks like a child, curled into a fetal position on Tony's lap like he's sleeping. The shoulder of his shirt is covered in a new wave of blood. The shivering keeps getting more and more intense so that it's more of a spasm.

He's getting worse.

"I can't move him," Tony says firmly. "He wouldn't make it halfway. You've gotta come get us, Rogers, or he's not going to survive."

" _He?_ "

"You'll find out soon enough. Just... just get down here. Please. I don't..." He trails off, shaking his head. "I don't want to lose him, okay?"

Silence. Someone's shouting on the other side of the line- two someones, actually, who sound suspiciously like Barnes and Sam. Steve's barking orders like a military officer.

"Rogers?" Tony asks, his voice annoyingly small in the silence.

"We'll be there. Hold on, Tony. Hold on."

The tone beeps once, twice, and then it's gone, leaving Tony and Peter alone in the dark streets of New York.

Tony curses, settles in, and waits. There isn't much else that he can do.

**_______________**

Peter takes a turn for the worst five minutes later. Tony doesn't see it coming- he's been sitting there like an absolute idiot, shaking in his coat as the temperature drops and another round of snowfall begins. As he's said, he's _absolutely hopeless_ in any situation that requires empathy and involves children, so he's completely out of his element.

He doesn't even notice when Peter's shivers turn from quakes to something that resembles a seizure until the kid tumbles right out of his lap. Peter falls to the concrete, weakly shifting so that he's lying on his side, and lands in a fresh drift of snow. Tony squeaks (he won't admit it later) and scrambles to pick him up again, gripping his shoulders and pulling him upright in a desperate attempt to pull him out of the cold. The damage is done, though- Peter's shivering picks back up to a point where Tony thinks he might explode. His curls are dripping with slush.

"M'ss'r S'ark."

His voice is so quiet, so _young_ , that Tony can feel his heart shatter inside his chest. Peter shifts onto his side, brow furrowed from the effort it takes to move, and stares up at him like he's a lifeline.

At this point, that's exactly what he is.

" 'M col', M'ss'r S'ark."

It takes a minute to decipher what he said, and when he does, he wants to kick himself. He's sitting beside a possibly (see: _probably_ ) hypothermic, bloody, _seriously ill_ kid in his warm winter coat, and he hasn't given it a second thought.

"Shit, kid, sorry," Tony mutters. He unbuttons the front of his coat and slides it over his shoulders before draping it over Peter's, tucking his arms in as carefully as he can and trying to ignore the warm blood that seeps out under his hands. Peter melts into the warm fabric with a soft sigh, his body completely limp over Tony's legs. There's no resistance, no argument, no self-sacrificing protests.

Just quiet.

So, so quiet.

"You doing okay down there?" Tony asks, brushing a hand over Peter's messy hair and wincing when he feels how much hotter his forehead is. The fever's gotten worse, and at the rate they're going at, something has to be _seriously_ wrong.

Peter hums a reply, nestles further down into the coat, and doesn't say anything else.

They sit there for another few minutes, Peter half-asleep, Tony starting to panic, when it happens.

Peter groans.

His body jumps under Tony's hands like he's been hit by defibrillators.

And, without another warning, he tips to the side and vomits all over the street and Tony's knees.

It's pathetic, really, the way he groans and sobs. Wave after wave of sick spills out of his mouth as he retches, jerking back and forth with cut-off cries.

Tony doesn't know what to do. He's floundering, really, because _wow,_ it looks like there's _blood_ somewhere in there and Peter's actually _crying_ and asking for _help_ and what does he do-

A pair of glowing headlights pull up into the entrance of the alley, bright yellow and warm, and a trio of figures step out of Tony's favorite car. Steve's triangular form is the first, bolting out of the driver's seat as if he's been shocked, and Barnes and Sam are quick to follow.

They jog over to where Tony and Peter are sitting (and lying, respectively). Steve looks like he's about to have an aneurism, and from the look on Barnes' face, Tony isn't that far off. Sam skids to a halt beside Peter, wide-eyed and tight-lipped, and barely hesitates before getting to work.

God bless pararescue.

**_______________**

He doesn't know what's happening.

He doesn't know what's happening.

_He doesn't know what's happening._

There's someone whispering something into Peter's ear, rolling him over on the floor and pressing their hand to his forehead. Probing his upper arms. Patting him on the shoulder and apologizing quietly when he winces. He can't open his eyes, can't try to figure out who it is, because his stomach is trying to turn itself inside-out.

He vomits until there's nothing left, racked with agony, but it doesn't stop there. Because, even though he's completely empty, his body _won't stop._ He's gagging on air, retching emptily, dying.

Peter's dying.

"M'ss'r S'ark?" He croaks, forcing the words out between heavy breaths in a desperate attempt to find someone he knows. "Need you."

The man with his hands on Peter's shoulders squeezes him gently, whispering reassurance.

"Stark? He's asking for you."

And then someone familiar is pushing into Peter's narrow line of vision, combing their hands through his hair.

"You're okay, kid," Tony says gently. "You're gonna be okay, I promise. Just let it all out and you'll feel better."

Peter tries to do what he says. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries to calm down, tries to pull air into his lungs, but it _isn't working and he's panicking and he can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe._

"Stark, you've gotta get him to breathe. If he starts hyperventilating and chokes, I don't think I'll be able to do much."

He recognizes that voice.

_"You really don't know?"_

Oh, no. Oh, no.

_"Seriously, dude, this is something I think you should be able to figure out."_

That's Sam Wilson's voice.

That's _the Falcon's_ voice.

 _The Falcon,_ who had tried to _literally shoot him_ only twelve or so hours earlier that day, is trying to get him to stop vomiting.

That means...

Another voice, deeper than the first, breaks the silence. "Is he okay? Sam, talk to us here. What do you need?" 

And that's Steve Rogers. Captain America. _Captain America,_ who had almost taken his _head_ off with his _shield._ Who had given him a _concussion,_ for God's sake.

This is bad. This is very, very bad, because Peter- even though he's been off the radar for the better part of a year- knows that there are certain people in the Avengers that travel as a pack.

Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers, and Bucky Barnes are one of those packs, and he's not interested in getting into a fight with any of them.

"Alright, Peter," Tony says quietly. He rubs a hand over the crown of Peter's head. "You're good, you're good. That's good."

Unconsciously, when another awful retch tears at his stomach, Peter leans into his hands with a quiet sigh. The contact feels... nice, really. He hasn't been close enough to anybody for anything physical, and he hadn't realized how much he'd _missed_ it until now. 

Tony chuckles and pats him again, seeming to understand what he wants. Rough skin glides over his own, helping him push away the nausea and pull his breathing under control. Peter breathes.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

_Peter breathes._

**_______________**

Even though Tony doesn't particularly _like_ Sam, Steve, or Barnes, he has to admit that they're good in a crisis. It's probably something from their military days- all three are able to pull themselves together in the blink of an eye and do what needs to be done, no matter how hard it is.

The fact that they've all lost someone in the field- friends, lovers, themselves, whatever- might help, too.

Sam and Tony calm Peter down. Steve barks back and forth with someone on the phone. Barnes looks for the source of the bleeding.

The four men work together in an alley, and the thought that they're cooperating with their respective enemies doesn't even come to mind.

It doesn't take long for Barnes to find Peter's main injury- a puncture wound in his upper arm that looks like a knife wound. He has to cut away the kid's sleeve with one of the many blades that he happens to carry on his person (Tony doesn't know where he was storing it, and he doesn't have time to think about it). There's blood all over the ground and Tony's coat.

He couldn't care less.

"I've got a med team ready in the tower," Steve says shortly, swinging into the driver's seat and turning the car on with cold efficiency. "Is he safe to move?"

Sam bites his lip and pokes the stab wound. When Peter groans in response, he gives an affirmative. "He's reacting to outside stimuli, so he's not in shock or anything. Be careful with his head and he should be fine."

Steve nods and hops from the driver's seat to the passenger's seat, eyeing the kid on the ground with thinly-veiled concern. He gestures for Barnes to take the wheel, and he does it without question. That leaves Tony and Sam to get Peter from the ground to the car.

Maybe not the best idea.

Tony can feel himself panicking and falling apart. This is a _human kid,_ he can't _mess him up_. What if he drops him or accidentally steps on him or does _something_ to mess everything up? What if-?

Sam, bless the man, shuts him down before he can speak.

"He needs you, Stark. Pull yourself together."

And, miraculously, Tony does.

They lift him together, carefully keeping his head elevated, and work in tandem until the back seat is full of people. Tony sits in the farther seat, supporting Peter's neck and head, and Sam carefully keeps his feet out of the way as he closes the door. The kid's completely out of it, eyes closed and lips parted, and Tony is _so thankful_ that he's asleep because this would be _painful_ if he wasn't.

Steve nods to Barnes once everyone's secure, and- true to his reckless nature- the latter _floors_ the gas pedal and takes off through the streets, running red lights and blowing stop signs without a single care.

Tony, nestled in the corner with a bleeding kid in his lap, a former pararescue next to him, and a pair of super soldiers in the front seat, realizes how many people he has on his side.

Peter snores.

**_______________**

The aforementioned med team, led by Helen Cho and Bruce, is waiting at the front door.

So is Rhodey.

Tony glances over his shoulder at Steve- he's positive that he hadn't called his friend in, and he doesn't know who else had had access to a phone during the past few hours. The blond is handing Peter off to Helen and Bruce with the help of Barnes- _Bucky_ , his name is _Bucky_. He turns and nods, once, steely eyes softening to something warm as he gestures for Tony to go ahead.

"He's in good hands, Tony. He's safe."

He doesn't need any more convincing.

Tony's in Rhodey's arms before either of them can blink, his face buried in the other man's shoulder to try and hide the stinging in his eyes. Rhodey, clearly startled, pats him on the back in a desperate attempt to understand _what_ in the _world_ is going on.

They stay that way for what seems like hours. Tony refuses to move, breathing as deeply as he can, inhaling the clean smell of Rhodey's shirt like it's the only oxygen he's had in days. Like he's suffocating. Rhodey doesn't force him to move until he wants to.

Rhodey's a blessing.

And, judging by the look on his face, he knows.

When Tony finally has the emotional strength to pull away, Rhodey doesn't say anything. He doesn't try to talk, doesn't bring up the kid, just pulls Tony over to a pair of chairs in the lobby and sits him down. There's a silent understanding between the both of them that, if there's something to be said, it will be said. That there's no use in prompting anything.

So Tony takes it upon himself to speak first.

"The kid's homeless." 

Rhodey looks up, raises an eyebrow, and nods.

"I guessed as much."

"Sure, platypus," Tony scoffs. "Of course you did. Anyway, I found him in a back alley. Figured I should..." He waves a hand aimlessly. "Do something right for once."

"You've done plenty of good things, Tones. This isn't the only one."

"Might as well be. It's the only one that matters right now, anyway."

Back to silence. A pair of businessmen walk past, too wrapped up in their own conversation to notice anything around them. The receptionist shoots a glance at the two men in her waiting area before going back to her work.

"He looked pretty beat up," Rhodey says quietly. "What happened to him?"

"Dunno. He was behind a dumpster. Probably got knifed or something."

"You think he's going to be okay?"

Tony shrugs, tries not to let his nerves show. "God, I hope so. I really do."


	9. Lose Your Heart But Don't Know When

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up in Avengers Tower and realizes just how much of a mess he's managed to get himself into. 
> 
> Tony isn't an idiot.
> 
> Bucky and Natasha are literal superspies.
> 
> Steve wrote the book on lying.
> 
> They all know what happened to Spider-Man. The hardest part is deciding what to do next.
> 
> Warnings: A N G S T, cursing, a bit of vomiting toward the beginning (emeto, semi-graphic), self-deprecating thoughts
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to: King_Claus_The_First, Idrhen15 (who was actually one of the first commenters on this story and has been with me ever since, i love you v much), the_fifth_marauder101, Senii (whose comment helped me a lot with my whump, thank you), alltheSinnersandalltheSaints (whose rant-comment literally keeps me going), and every other brilliant person who reads, comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscribes to my fics. You're all brilliant, an incredible motivation, and a good bit of my impulse control at times. Love you!
> 
> My tumblr is @silver-bubbles. Since this story is reaching its end, I've started to plan out my big story. To receive updates, follow me over there!

It's soft.

Really, really soft.

And warm.

Huh. Weird.

There's something brushing up against Peter's arms, covering his torso and legs. He feels like he's floating on air- or maybe a cloud. Yeah, a cloud. It's soft enough to be a cloud. Nice, nice, nice...

Wow. How many types of pain medication is he on? He hasn't been this loopy since... well, since never. He has _never_ been this loopy.

Eep.

Peter groans at a stabbing pain in his stomach and blindly reaches a hand out, groping for something tangible and finding only air. One of his fingers catches on fabric- a blanket. 

He hasn't been this comfortable in a long time. Mattresses were in short order on the streets and blankets were even worse; there had been a period of time where he'd been sleeping under newspapers and hoodies and whatever else he could get his hands on. Sheets and pillows are so far out of his range right now that it's hard to wrap his mind about the fact that he's actually comfortable.

It's... nice, though. Good.

Suddenly, Peter wants to cry.

The last time he felt this happy was when May was still alive, and it feels wrong to move on without her. So, so wrong. He hasn't given her much thought lately- at all, actually- because of the chaos in his life, but now that he isn't in immediate danger...

Wow. This is... this is the first time he's actually been able to mourn her.

He's about to start crying (the stinging in his eyes is more than enough to tell him that) when it happens- in a fit of sudden sickness, he vomits.

There's no warning, just a burning feeling in his throat and a bad taste in his mouth. Peter lurches up from his spot among the pillows in a desperate attempt to find some sort of receptacle and, in his panic, forgets to open his eyes.

He vomits all over the bed, himself, and everything in his immediate vicinity.

It's awful, really- nothing but bile comes up. It feels like acid in his throat and mouth, burning and tearing and _destroying_ and his stomach _hurts so bad_ -

The sound of a door opening and closing interrupts his retching. Peter jolts back, blindly terrified of whoever- or whatever- is coming, and falls _right_ over the plastic rails on the side of his cot. He hits the ground in a fit of panic and lands squarely on his back, and just like that, there's no air in his lungs.

There's nothing for him to throw up.

There's nothing left.

And, just like that, he wants to cry again.

_Everything, mental and physical, hurts._

A hand falls on his good shoulder- large, calloused, and slightly familiar. It rubs back and forth, traveling over his back to the spot between his shoulder blades, and settles there. Another hand comes down to gently grip his injured arm, just above the arrow wound. Peter doesn't open his eyes- he's braced for a hit, ready to take a fist to the face. He shudders once, twice...

And nothing happens.

Instead, a voice rings out through the room, quiet and comforting. "Hey, kid, you're okay. You're okay."

_Mister Stark._

Safe.

Safe.

Safe.

Peter opens his eyes, carefully squinting against the light until his vision adjusts to the change before opening them fully. A face swims into his field of sight; it's blurry at first and hard to see, but as Peter gets used to the brightness, he's able to make out features and identify its owner.

Mister Stark, dark-haired and nervous, stares down at him with a wavery smile on his face. The hands belong to him, and Peter is able to breathe a sigh of relief at the realization that _he knows_ Mister Stark and Mister Stark won't hurt him.

Iron Man might, but Mister Stark won't.

"H-hi," Peter stutters, coughing up another round of bile and moaning when he realizes that he's _covered_ in his stomach fluids. It's _disgusting._ "So-sorry."

Mister Stark shakes his head good-naturedly. "Don't worry about it, kiddo, it's not your fault. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

"Mhm."

He doesn't want to get up, but he _also_ doesn't want to go back to sleep in his own vomit, and the latter outweighs the former by a landslide. Tony, moving the hand on his shoulder to his forearm, struggles to his feet with the help of Peter's bed (a hospital-style cot with a broken railing, probably the product of his not-so-graceful dismount), and helps him stand with minimal effort.

Peter stumbles the minute he regains his footing and almost falls onto the bed. Another pair of hands- paler and larger than Tony's- catch him around the middle. He freezes, eyes wide, and looks up to the owner.

They're a lot less welcome than Tony.

Captain America stares back at him, blue eyes filled with concern, the only thing keeping him on his feet. Captain America, who had almost bashed Peter's head in with his shield. Captain America, who was one of the main causes of his injury.

Captain America, who had tried to kill him not twenty-four hours earlier (assuming Peter hadn't been out for long).

Peter can't help his reaction, no matter how much he wishes he could. He flinches back- just a little twitch, really- and steps into Tony's chest, subconsciously trying to hide from his self-imposed 'savior'. 

Captain America winces and takes a few steps back, raising his hands in surrender. "Sorry, son," he says apologetically, biting his lip. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Tony, protectively holding Peter by the arm and supporting him, chuckles nervously. "Capsicle's all bark and no bite, kid. Nothing to worry about. Let's get you cleaned up."

Maybe he can sense the mounting tension in the room. Maybe it's just a natural reaction. Either way, Peter's incredibly grateful that Tony leads him out of the room, half-carrying him into the hallway and leaving the Captain behind. His bare feet drag against tiled floors.

Where are his shoes?

He doesn't realize that he said it out loud until Tony replies.

"Burned 'em," he says, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Peter gapes.

"Y-you burned my _sh-shoes?!_ I-I don't have any- any others!"

Tony waves a hand dismissively. "I bought you new ones, don't worry. Those things were trash."

He's speechless. The thought that someone would _actually_ try and fix things- that someone would _do_ something like that- is flooring, even though he should've expected it. After all, Tony had give him his coat in the city the other day, and- if he was assuming correctly- had been the one to bring him back to... wherever he was.

His silence is taken as gratitude.

"Don't worry about it," Tony says. "One pair of Converse isn't going to set me back much."

They keep walking (Tony's walking, Peter's... he doesn't know what he's doing, actually). The silence is awkward this time around; it probably wasn't the best idea to be so offhand about money with a homeless kid around. Tony seems to notice, so he doesn't say anything else.

Peter doesn't mind the quiet. It gives him time to process things.

They arrive at what he assumes is a bathroom a few minutes later. Tony passes Peter a bundle of clothes, seemingly out of nowhere, and jerks his head at the door with a winning grin. 

"You go ahead in and change, yeah? There's soap in the shower and a bunch of hygiene stuff under the sink, Pepper picked out some stuff for you. Towel's on the back of the door. Come out whenever you're ready; I'll be waiting. Bruce probably needs to check you over or something."

Peter nods hesitantly and opens the door, stepping inside before closing and locking it as securely as he can. He sets the clothes on the counter, a marble number that probably cost more than his medical bills, and strips out of his vomit-covered clothes without a second thought. 

The shower is _insane._ It looks like it belongs in some sort of a museum- the walls are made of the same sort of marble as the sink and the faucet and handles look like they might be gold. Peter feels _dirty_ when he steps inside and turns it to the warmest setting he can stand without burning his skin, like he shouldn't be anywhere near something this fancy.

He doesn't deserve it.

_That doesn't matter, dumbass, because Mister Stark offered and you're going to accept. Don't act like a spoiled brat._

**_______________**

Tony's waiting in the communal Avengers living room, scrolling down the newsfeed on his phone, when Bruce walks in. There's a tablet in one of his hands, a stylus in the other, and a shocked expression on his face.

He's on his feet within seconds, rushing across the room and peering over the top of the tablet to try and get a good view of whatever Bruce is looking at. Bruce doesn't even _try_ to hide it, which is more concerning than the look on his face- if he's worried about something, Tony knows that there's an actual problem.

The screen's taken up by some sort of graph, a series of images joined together by arrows and captions. They don't make sense _at all_ , but that's probably because Tony doesn't have any experience in Bruce's fields other than his high school and college biology classes. He knows enough to be able to identify a strand of DNA and a few notes about genes and modifications, but that's it.

"What am I looking at here?" He asks, eyebrows raised. 

Bruce shakes his head nervously and bites his lip. "I did some bloodwork on the kid you brought in, just to make sure he hadn't gotten anything from broken glass and nails and whatever."

"And?"

None of this has any significant meaning to Tony. Is Peter sicker than he'd thought? 

"And," Bruce says, his voice trembling, "he has some serious abnormalities in his DNA. This kid is _tricked out_ , Tony." Another swipe down on the tablet, another page. "It's _nuts_."

The words don't connect in his brain. How could they? Tony knows Peter Parker, the scrawny homeless kid who had helped him figure out an equation in the middle of a rainstorm. Who hadn't bothered to fight against people who pushed him down because he was in their way. Who had given his mourning boss the last bit of money he owned to help her compensate for the loss of her girlfriend.

That child is _not_ an enhanced.

"Funny joke, Brucie," Tony scoffs. "Really had me going there for a second. Ha, ha, ha, and all that." _Please, please say you were joking_. "Now tell me what's _really_ wrong with him."

Bruce's bites his lip. An edge of pity bleeds into his expression.

Bruce is the kind of man to wear his heart on his sleeve. He doesn't know how to lie, doesn't bother to hide his emotions, can't play like he's alright when he isn't.

And that's how Tony knows that he isn't lying.

"You're not joking."

"I'm not. Tony, that kid is _not_ a normal kid. I can promise you that."

_This is a lot to take in._

He stands there, staring over Bruce's shoulder with wide eyes and the dumbest expression on his face, completely shocked. "You're telling me I brought an enhanced kid into my tower without knowing?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"Peter is _enhanced?!_ "

"Extremely."

It's a good thing Bruce is a patient person. Tony feels like an invalid- he can't bring himself to reply, can't figure out what he would say if he could. Peter Parker, orphan, homeless kid, drop-out genius, is _enhanced_.

And he's hurt.

"You're going to tell the others?" He asks, collapsing back onto the couch like his strings have been cut. "Bruce?"

Bruce winces and nods, turning his tablet off. "Sorry, Tony, but I have to. He's staying around them and they have to know, just to make sure they're ready to deal with any situations that pop up." A pause. Then, quietly, "That's okay with you, right?"

_No. But it isn't like he has a choice._

"It's fine, Bruce. Just don't let the kid know that we've figured him out." Tony knows how badly impromptu outings can go, especially for supers. More importantly, he doesn't want Peter to feel threatened and try to run for it. "Not until we know what to do. Okay?"

"Yeah," Bruce says. He turns and heads for the elevator. "Thanks, Tony."

 _Nothing to thank me for_.

**_______________**

Peter hasn't felt this clean in as long as he can remember, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever experienced. It's like a warm blanket, wrapped around his body. Protective. Comfortable.

Something he hasn't had in a long time.

It had taken him a while to get the blood out of his hair and at least half a dollar's worth of shampoo and conditioner- more for the guilt jar- but, eventually, the last clump had come out and left his hair silky-smooth and clean.

Clean.

It's nice to feel clean.

The clothes are simple: a t-shirt with a picture of a pizza on the front and a dumb science pun scrawled across the chest, black sweatpants that look _extremely_ similar to his Spider-Man suit ( a suit that, if nobody's found it by now, is tucked under a dumpster in Queens), and a pair of white socks. They fit snugly.

Peter has so many things to be grateful for. He's lucky that he's _alive,_ really.

Lucky that he made it out of-

His heart jumps a beat, and for a second, it feels like he stops breathing. Peter stumbles into the counter, bracing himself with clenched fists and white knuckles, and shakes his head.

_You idiot._

Iron Man's voice is cold and metallic inside his suit.

_You absolute idiot._

The faceplate on the Iron Man suit flips out, and Peter almost has a conniption, because Tony Stark steps out and he's actually on the same roof as Peter and it's insane. He's not wearing the suit he was when he came by Taste of Heaven, or the coat he was wearing when he helped Peter and took him out to dinner (that's hidden under a dumpster in Queens until Peter can return it), just a band t-shirt and a pair of oil-stained jeans. Tennis-shoes. He looks cold and tired and angry, and if that doesn't give Peter a small heart attack, he doesn't know what will.

_How could you not remember?_

"You still killed him, though, didn't you? He's still dead."

_Tony Stark is the same damn person as Iron Man._

Peter curses himself for not realizing sooner that _he_ is the person the Avengers are after. _He_ is Spider-Man. _He_ is a murderer.

And Iron Man, _Tony Stark_ , happens to be after him, too.

Marble cracks beneath his hands with a screech that grates on his ears and makes him wince. He releases the counter and steps back, slowly, staring at a set of thin, pale fingers that don't seem to belong to him.

Do they belong to him?

Maybe not. They don't _look_ like his, after all- his fingers are strong and deft, made for dancing over computer keys and helping May with dinner when she inevitably burns it. They're made for hugging Ned and passing him pencils when he forgets his own. For pressing the joybuzzer at decathlon practice. For mixing chemicals and taking tests and learning to drive and _oh God these aren't his-_

 _But they are_ , Peter realizes, eyes wide and watery. _These are his_ _, and their purpose has changed so drastically that he can't even fathom it._

_They are what he has become: skinny, pale, weak. Brittle._

_Nothing._

_Just like him._

He stands there for a long time, doesn't know how much. The concept of 'time' doesn't have much meaning when the realization that you've spent a sizeable part of your life in an absolute hellhole and, just when you think you're in the clear, something _else_ has managed to pop up to make everything harder.

Hasn't it been hard enough already? Hasn't he already been through enough? Hasn't he _lost_ enough?

Apparently not.

"Peter? Kid, are you in there?"

Tony's voice cuts through the silence, muffled from the hallway outside. He sounds worried- shaky, even. Peter takes a deep breath and nods. Realizes that Tony can't see him.

Iron Man can't see him.

"Yeah, I'm- I'm here," he croaks, then clears his throat. "I'm here."

There's a sigh of relief on the other side of the door. "Good, good. You coming out any time soon?"

"J-just finished."

Peter gathers up his old clothes, folding them and tucking them neatly under his arm. He hangs up the towels as neatly as he can and curses when he sees a few smears of red against white cotton.

"You okay?" Tony asks.

" 'M fine." He opens the door, cheeks flushed with red, and jerks his head at the towel in question. "I got blood on your towel. S-sorry."

The look of relief Tony's eyes is almost tangible. He shakes his head and grins, exhaling heavily before waving a hand flippantly in Peter's direction. "I'm more worried about the fact that it's blood than the fact that it's on my towel, kid."

"But-"

"Nah, I'll buy another one if it's that bad. Blood comes out."

_Does it?_

"But you're okay," he says, eyes brushing up and down Peter's form like he's looking for something. "That's good."

They stand there for a minute, Peter watching Tony carefully, tense and nervous. Tony checks him over a few times, then relaxes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket.

"Let's get you back to bed."

**_______________**

The Avengers assemble in the communal living space, crowded around Bruce and his tablet, various levels of skepticism showing through on their faces. Tony, of course, is noticeably absent- nobody makes snarky remarks or disrupts the peace. Nobody starts fights with Steve or Bucky over insignificant things. Nobody passes a pot of steaming coffee around the table to try and show some solidarity.

Nobody speaks.

Tony's upstairs with the subject of their concern, getting him settled back into his hospital bed with the help of Helen Cho, so there's no argument for the words on the page. 

Natasha sits behind Clint with her hands on his shoulders, leaning over him as much as she can without falling. Bucky stands on her right side and keeps her on her feet. They read silently, eyes combing over word after word, line after line, paragraph after paragraph, until there's nothing else. Suspicion grows in their cores with every page.

They don't understand the diagrams, but they can infer enough by the look on Bruce's face and the initial concern in his voice.

The kid Tony brought into the tower, beaten half to death, is a problem.

Natasha's having a hard time believing that.

"He's tiny," she says dryly, raising an eyebrow. "That little thing isn't enhanced."

"Did you check your work?" Clint asks. "Because we all make mistakes when we're doing math."

"It's really nothing to be ashamed of."

"Even scientists get things wrong sometimes."

Bucky takes a seat beside Bruce on the couch, stretching sweatpant-clad legs out and kicking his feet up onto the table. 

"I could crush him with my normal arm," he says, cracking his knuckles for emphasis. "Not that I would, but it's a total possibility. He's like Steve before the serum."

Steve, on Bruce's other side, rolls his eyes. He doesn't say anything.

"I know what I'm talking about." Then, to Natasha, "Hand me that stylus."

She nods and hands him a pen from the end table (it doesn't look like a stylus, but whatever). Bruce takes it with a nod and circles a few spots on a chart, tapping his pen against the screen impatiently. Three splotches stare back- dark, small, and different.

"This is a chart of Peter Parker's DNA markers. It compares genetic markers from a normal, unenhanced human with those of whatever he is. You can see the differences."

"So that-" Clint points at one of the three spots, "isn't in my code?"

"Correct. It's a clear marker; the kid is _definitely_ an enhanced."

Natasha brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"And all three of those mark a different enhancement?"

"Either that or a compound enhancement. If we don't know what he can do, I can't figure out which one it is." Bruce shrugs. "No way to do it."

The room goes quiet.

"Does Stark know?" Steve asks softly, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. " _Did_ he know?"

"Not when he brought Peter into the building, no. I told him while he was in the shower. Pretty sure the kid has no idea that we've figured it out."

Natasha and Bucky share a nervous look. Their minds work the same- they've been conditioned to think the same way, act the same way, function the same way. It's no surprise that they both happen upon the same conclusion at the same time.

It's never a surprise.

Really, though, the clues are too obvious- Tony Stark brings a hurt homeless kid into the tower on the same day that the Avengers stage a major beat-down with Spider-Man.

"What were his injuries?" Natasha asks, speaking for both of them. "Do you have a list or anything?"

Bruce shoots her an odd look before nodding and scrolling down further on his tablet.

"Malnourished, dehydrated, some sort of bacterial infection, exhaustion, and a ton of bruises and contusions. All around beat to hell, really. Probably got caught up in some sort of gang violence. Maybe a mugging?"

"Any specific details?" Bucky asks. There's a tone of panic in his voice- desperation, even- that makes Steve sit up straight, eyes wide and nervous. Bucky doesn't _get_ panicked, not anymore. Not after Hydra. 

"Is something wrong?" Steve asks, biting his lip. "Buck, is everything okay?"

Bucky ignores him, opting instead to lean over and press Bruce's shoulder into the couch. "Bruce," he says lowly, "I need to know if you found anything important. Anything at all. Something that he could be identified with?"

"I- I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce stammers. "He had a pretty bad concussion... there was a stab wound on his upper arm. I can't really think of anything else-"

_That's it. That's the answer._

Bucky's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. He lets go of Bruce and falls back, bouncing against the couch cushions with a quiet curse. Covers his eyes with his metal hand. Curses.

"Dammit, Bruce. _Dammit._ "

The rest of the Avengers, save for Natasha, stare at him with varying looks of confusion. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and rubs it carefully.

"Buck...?"

"Spider-Man," Natasha says, her voice hollow. "Spider-Man, Steve."

Clint almost falls out of his chair.

"We beat on a _kid."_

**_________________ **

Tony helps Peter upstairs, bearing the majority of his weight (which, to be fair, isn't very much) on his shoulders. Peter stumbles along next to him like a newborn fawn, barely able to keep himself on his feet. The shower had felt nice, yeah, but it took a lot of effort for him to stay standing and all he wants to do is go back to sleep. 

The sheets on his bed have been changed when he gets back to the room. Tony sits him down and helps him maneuver himself under a fresh set of blankets, tucking the comforter over his legs when Peter realizes that he can't reach them himself. It's embarrassing as hell.

And there's nothing he can do about it.

But Tony doesn't seem to think twice about it. He just makes sure Peter's comfortable, adjusts his pillows, checks his bandages, and calls a nurse in to get him back onto his IV's before sitting down in a chair next to the bed.

The nurse is a nice lady who reminds him of May. She's gentle and careful to make sure he's comfortable before doing anything. The IV goes in easily, inserted with a fine needle into the crook of his elbow and taped down. Peter only winces a bit- it barely hurts, after all, but he doesn't _like_ needles. 

She leaves and comes back a few minutes later, this time with a tray in one hand. Tony takes the tray with a quiet 'thanks'. The nurse smiles, nods, and walks out.

And Peter is left alone with Tony Stark.

The tension in the room is tangible. Peter knows it, Tony knows it, and neither of them are willing to do anything about it. Peter leans back into the pillows and pulls the blanket up to his neck, trying to watch his 'savior' without him knowing.

Of course, Tony knows when he's being watched.

"So, he says casually, looking up from his phone. "You need to eat something."

Peter nods.

"Are you going to?"

Shrugs. "I dunno."

"You should go ahead and do it now."

Behind his glasses, Tony's eyes are warm. In front of them, he looks like a statue.

Another shrug. Butterflies rumble through Peter's stomach- or maybe that's just the hunger talking. 

" _There_ it is." Tony smirks and picks up the tray, passing it over so Peter can prop it up on his thighs. "You're hungry."

"Maybe."

_Yes._

_But I don't deserve it._

"Go on," he prompts, nodding his head toward the food- two pieces of toast, a bowl of oatmeal, and an apple. 

Peter looks down at the tray and fights down a wave of revulsion. It's been a long time since he's eaten something that looks this good. Come to think of it, it's been a long time since he's even _seen_ something that looks this good.

And it's all for him.

"Are you sure?" He asks, his voice wavery and tired.

"What kind of question is _that?!_ It's your food, kid, nobody _else_ is going to eat it," Tony snaps.

Peter twitches and nods, immediately picking up the toast and biting into it. There's something in Tony's tone- something about the way he speaks- that's impossible to ignore and even harder to disregard.

And Peter would be lying if he said that he wasn't afraid.

Tony looks a bit guilty as he sits back in his seat, but he doesn't say anything. The phone comes back up. He retreats back into his little world.

Peter feels alone again.

The food is bland enough to avoid throwing back up, he _knows_ that. He shouldn't feel nauseous from a few pieces of bread and some oatmeal. Nevertheless, halfway through his first piece of toast, something in Peter's stomach jolts. He practically _kicks_ the tray off of his legs in a desperate bid to avoid vomiting on himself again, sending it sailing across the room and into a wall, and _yanks_ himself out of bed and over to the trash can. There's a sharp pain in his arm, a trickle of warm fluid, but he doesn't _care_.

He can't keep it down.

Breakfast comes back up with three or four heaves and a pair of chest-wracking coughs. Peter stares down at the contents of his stomach, gasping for air, tears rolling down his face in rivers, and _curses his inability to stop being weak._

Throat burning and head pounding, he pushes himself back up to his feet and staggers toward his overturned tray, fully intent on cleaning up the mess he's made. All he's done in his time in the tower is throw up and take up valuable resources, and now he's managed to splatter oatmeal all over what looks like his IV stand (his eyes are too blurry for him to see clearly).

And then there are hands on his back for the second time that day, warm and rough and calloused from hard work, guiding him away from the tray. A soft voice croons out a quiet lullaby in his ear. Fabric brushes up against his skin.

Peter subconsciously leans into the warmth, sobbing quietly as the vomit takes its toll on his body. One can only be sick so many times in one day and keep themselves together, and he's been sick about two times too many.

It's time to rest.

**_______________**

Tony doesn't know what to do when the kid jumps out of his bed, rips out his IV, and vomits up a few gallons of _whatever_ into the trashcan.

He doesn't know what to do when he collapses, sobbing.

When the fight drains out of his body.

But he knows what his mother used to do, and that worked well enough for him.

Peter makes a feeble attempt to stand, tries to walk over to where his breakfast lies. It looks like he's going to try to clean it up himself- crying, sick, and terrified- and that's where Tony steps in.

He carefully sets his phone down on the bedside table and, slowly, as to avoid scaring Peter, makes his way across the overturned IV stand. There's clear liquid all over the floor, spilled from carefully-filled bags. Red mixes into the mess. The smell of bile fills the air.

Tony takes a deep breath, steels himself, and kneels down on the ground next to Peter as he sobs, trying to ignore the cold fluid that soaks through the knees of his pants. It's not hard to figure out where to go from there- one hand on his shoulder, one on his side to guide him away from the trashcan and into a relatively clean patch of floor. Peter goes without a fight, pliable and shaking in his hands.

There's no strength left in his body. Nothing left to struggle with.

It breaks Tony's metaphorical heart.

Quietly, he hums a lullaby. It's just your generic 'suburban parent' tune- _hush, little baby, don't you cry-_ but Peter's tears take on a whole new level, moving from sobs to keening wails that pierce the air like knives.

It's bad.

It might even be worse than he had thought.

"Hey, you're okay," Tony whispers, brushing a hand through Peter's hair. Peter brushes his fingers over the fabric of his suit jacket.

His entire body shakes.

"You're okay, kiddo, you're okay. It's all going to be okay."

A gut-wrenching wail rips its way through Peter's body. He curls further into Tony's stomach, tucking his head against his shoulder, and takes a shuddering breath.

 _He's trying to calm himself down_ , Tony thinks sadly. _He's trying to stop._

"You're allowed to cry, Peter. You're allowed to cry."

And there, among broken bags and spilled oatmeal and trashcans full of sick, Peter Parker cries.


	10. Were You Blinded By The Light?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.
> 
> Peter learns that maybe, just maybe, he might have someone in his corner.
> 
> Warnings: mild description of injury, angstangstangstangstangst, sad!peter (give my baby boy a break, please)
> 
> A relatively mild chapter by my standards. Also, I was planning for this to be the last chapter with any real content, but then I wrote almost 5,000 words of two scenes that were supposed to be 1,500 at the most so I could fit more content in, and I was too lazy to write any more for this chapter. So the content extends into the first half of chapter 11. You're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I've started posting previews of upcoming chapters and stories on my tumblr, as well as updates on my posting schedule and answers for asks. I accept headcanons, requests, whatever. My tumblr: 
> 
> [silver-bubbles](https://silver-bubbles.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Feel free to send asks, comments, whatever. <3

Peter doesn't know how long he stays there, curled up in Tony's lap, sobbing so hard that he can barely breathe. He doesn't count the seconds, the minutes, the hours.

For once, he doesn't really care.

And neither does Tony. At least, he doesn't _seem_ to care. He just... sits there, holding onto Peter like he doesn't have anything better to do- even though he very obviously does. Nobody _ever_ has time for Peter Parker, and that's the way it should be.

That's the way he feels like it should be.

But Tony doesn't tell him that it's time to get up. He doesn't tell him that he has anyone to meet up with, doesn't say anything about work or the Avengers, doesn't push him away.

So they stay there. Peter cries, cries, and cries some more, and Tony lets him. He sits until his back cramps and his knees hurt and he doesn't know if he's going to be able to get up again, and when he's reached that point, he stays. 

He still stays.

That's more than anyone else has done for Peter in the last year, and it speaks volumes about the kind of person he is. Most people wouldn't have hesitated to shove him away and continue with their day, because who is he? He's some random homeless kid who happens to have an enhancement and a good rapport with a rich superhero. Nothing special.

He's never been anything special.

When Peter finally cries himself out, letting out one last heavy sigh and going completely limp, Tony sags right along with him. His shoulders lose the insane amount of tension he's worked up over the last... how long has it been, anyway? It feels like they've been sitting there for hours.

Tony looks down at his watch. Thirty minutes have passed since Peter's last vomiting fit.

He stops humming.

"Are you okay?"

Peter's voice is too muffled and teary to make out, but his shaky nod speaks volumes more. Tony breathes a sigh of relief and carefully shifts the kid off of his lap and onto a clean patch on the floor, cushioning his head with both hands before rising to his feet.

It's the wrong move.

Tony should've realized that, with the fragile state of mind Peter's managed to work himself into, sudden movements wouldn't be the best way to go. Of course, he doesn't- he stands up fully and stretches his back out, wincing as it cracks (he's not as young as he used to be).

Peter, the poor, traumatized kid that he is, flinches almost immediately. Curls into a ball. Covers his head with one hand and whimpers like a kicked dog.

Tony's heart breaks.

The kid's too tired to make any real connections in his head, so he _knows_ that he doesn't mean it, but it still hurts.

"Hey, it's just me," he says quietly, leaning down again- his back has to _hate_ him by now- to place a hand on top of Peter's head. He weaves his fingers into ringlets of soft hair and strokes them gently, humming a few more bars of _Hush little baby_. Whispers quiet nonsense in Italian.

Peter twitches and, instead of pulling away, _leans into his touch_. A quiet sound works its way out of his throat, made of fear and pain and desperation.

_All he wants is affection, and I'm not going to give it to him on the floor._

It's a quick decision, and probably not a great one concerning Tony's health, but he disregards all common sense and does it anyway. With a grunt and a muttered curse, he snakes one arm around the back of Peter's neck and the other one under his legs, then uses the wall as a support to stand up. Peter shifts in his arms, whimpering quietly as Tony's bicep bumps against his injuries. He turns his head into the crook of his arm.

A small smile curves over his lips.

Peter really isn't as heavy as he should be. Of course, Tony doesn't _know_ how much a teenage boy should weigh, but he knows that they shouldn't be this light. It's got to be a result of the fact that everything he eats gets thrown up- which can't be healthy.

They're going to have to work on that.

He sets Peter down in the bed, eliciting a quiet grunt of protest, and smirks as he reaches a frail hand up to grab Tony's wrist. Tries to pull away. Finds that he actually _can't_ \- the kid has a _hell_ of a grip, and he doesn't look like he's going to let go.

"M'ss'r S'ark?"

"Right here, kid," Tony chuckles. "Can you let go?"

A wrinkle appears in the center of Peter's forehead. He sticks his bottom lip out in a pout and shakes his head.

"Don' go."

If that isn't the saddest thing Tony hasn't heard... well, nothing. It is, hands down, _the saddest thing he's ever heard._

So he doesn't go.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching out and ruffling Peter's curls like an affectionate father. The kid lets go of his hand without arguing, letting his wrist go limp against the sheets, a marionette with cut strings.

"Are you happy, bud?" Tony asks, combing his fingers through a patch of hair next to his ear. "Does this make you happy?"

The reply is an affirmative hum and a small nod.

Happy. Huh.

Peter falls asleep after about ten minutes, for all of which Tony is there. His breath evens out pretty quickly and, even though his chest shakes with each one and his face is the same color as his pillow, he looks healthier. Safer.

It takes Tony a few more minutes to realize that he was part of what made him safe.

The door opens half an hour later, and another head of curls- this one darker- pokes around to eye him nervously. Bruce bites his lip, watching Peter with something that looks almost like _fear_ , and gestures for Tony to come with him. When Tony beckons for him to come in, he shakes his head and points a finger out at the hallway.

Tony untangles his fingers from Peter's hair and stands, making sure the kid is tucked in and comfortable, before following Bruce out of the room and closing the door carefully.

"What's so important that you could pull me out of that?" He hisses, jabbing his thumb at the closed door. "I'd just gotten him to sleep! Do you know how _hard_ that was?!"

"I'm sorry, Tony," Bruce says quietly, "but this is honestly... really bad. We need to talk to you."

A ring of worst-case scenarios run through his head. Peter's got some sort of terminal illness, something's wrong with Pepper, there's another _alien invasion_ on their hands-

"How bad are we talking here, on a scale of 'we're out of coffee and Clint's going into withdrawal' to 'the Chitauri are back and we're all going to die'?"

" _Tony_ -"

"Okay, okay." Tony holds his hands up in surrender. "I can see where my jokes aren't appreciated. Take me to your leader, Brucie-Bear."

**_______________**

They're waiting in the kitchen.

All of them.

That's when Tony knows that something is _actually wrong_.

Natasha, Sam, Bucky, Clint, Steve, and Rhodey aren't the sort of people to hang out just for kicks, but there's always an off chance that they'll end up in the same place at the same time and won't bother to leave or argue about it. No, they're not what he's worried about.

A tall figure with long hair and a stern expression on her face stands between Steve and Natasha, and _that's_ when he knows that he's in for hell.

"Pep, good to see you," Tony says nervously. He forces a smile, but it feels so fake that he wants to cringe instead. "How's the company?"

Pepper glares at him and slowly shakes her head, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Natasha, ever her right-hand woman, jerks her head at one of the chairs with a saccharine smile that looks more dangerous than kind.

Tony knows better than to mess with the two strongest women he knows. He sure as hell knows better than to _argue_ with them.

He sits without a word, raises an expectant eyebrow, and kicks back.

"Is this an intervention? Because I'll have you know that I've been sober for over a year, so you've got nothing to-"

"It's not about that, Tony."

Steve looks like he's about to have an aneurism. His face is the color of a ripe tomato. It's not a flattering color.

"This isn't an intervention. We just need to talk, okay?" The way Rhodey phrases it makes it sound like Tony has a choice, but he knows better. Things involving Rhodey and Pepper never give him choices.

"You're talking now, platypus."

Rhodey shoots him a look. He shuts up.

It's the best decision, really.

"It's about the kid," Sam says, his voice quiet and almost ashamed. "The one you've got upstairs."

Bucky, quiet and dark on the seat beside him, shifts. "We have some bad news."

_Not Peter, not Peter, not Peter, not Peter-_

Tony laughs, startled, and shakes his head. "Kid's fine, he's fine. He's asleep, but I think he's getting better-"

"We're glad to hear that," Steve says gently. "Really, we are, but it isn't about that either."

"It's about how he got hurt."

"You know how?" He asks. "What, do you have someone _stalking_ the poor kid?!"

"Nobody's stalking anybody."

The tension in the room, if possible, grows and grows until it feels like it's going to smother every person present. Tony watches as the others shift around, taking their seats as if they're about to reveal some sort of sacred truth. Pepper sits beside him and places a hand on his arm.

She's shaking.

"Then _how do you know?!_ "

Natasha closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Because it was us, alright?!"

The room goes silent.

The floor falls out from beneath Tony's feet.

He can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

_He can't breathe._

Everything in his mind is on red alert, ready to shut down at a moment's notice, because he might not know much, but he knows one thing for certain.

He would _never_ hurt Peter Parker.

"I don't know what the hell you're on, Romanoff," he scoffs, "but I think it's messing with your head."

Steve seems to melt into the couch. "Tony..."

"No, Capsicle, don't _Tony_ me. None of you even _knew_ Peter before I brought him into this building last night, and I sure as _hell_ didn't hurt him."

"Tones, please just let us explain-"

"I would _never_ hurt that kid," he snaps, glaring vehemently across the table at the entirety of his team. "Believe that."

"He's _Spider-Man!_ "

The room goes silent.

Tony twists to face Natasha. She stares back at him, lips set into a firm line, gritting her teeth like it physically pains her to say it. Nevertheless, she doesn't let up- just watches him with steely eyes.

A hysterical laugh works its way up from his stomach and into his throat. He doesn't bother to stop it, even though everyone else looks affronted. Maybe even _concerned._ Steve clears his throat and stands,

"Tony, I really don't think this is-"

"No, I think it's _hilarious_." Another short laugh, just for emphasis. "I think it's _absolutely hilarious_ that _you think_ that _Peter Parker_ is _Spider-Man_.Did I get that right? I heard you right, didn't I?"

Natasha closes her eyes and bites her lip, glancing skyward as if she's praying for patience before saying, "Yes, Tony, you heard me right. The child- Peter Parker- is Spider-Man."

"I held him while he threw up everything in his stomach and cried for half an hour. I helped him _walk._ I _gave him my jacket when he was freezing in the streets_."

A red haze covers Tony's vision, and for once, he actually can't tell if it's because he's angry or injured. The others clearly don't know what to say- Natasha, taken aback, the others surprised, Pepper and Rhodey past the point of pity and well into tears. He keeps going.

" _I found him bleeding out behind a dumpster, for God's sake._ That kid is _not_ Spider-Man."

"So what's your argument?" Natasha snaps. "What do you have that supports the idea that Parker's not Spider-Man? Do you _actually_ have any solid fact to base this on?"

Judging from the look on her face when Tony remains silent, she knows that he doesn't.

She always knows.

Rhodey bites his lip and runs a hand over his short hair. His eyes flick back and forth between Natasha and Tony like he's watching a tennis match.

"Sorry, Tones, but she's right. We don't have any proof against her and all the arrows point at him."

It's hard for Tony to accept that he's wrong, and it always has been. That's something that probably going to stick with him for the rest of his life.

He honestly doesn't have a problem with it.

But right now? Right now, it's a pretty rough attribute to have. Because he's stuck in a room with some of the greatest minds- _the greatest people-_ on Earth, a group of people who live with him twenty-four seven, a group of people _who he can't avoid_ , and he's _wrong._

He's _so unbelievably wrong._

And he doesn't know how he hadn't noticed it earlier.

The arrows all point to Peter, it's true. How he'd dropped out of school around the time when Spider-Man had joined the slew of New York vigilantes. How he always had bruises and injuries and an oddly twitchy nature about him whenever Tony was around. How he'd gone silent after the incident in the alley.

How Tony had found him behind the dumpster, bloody and delirious, only half-a-day or so after the Avengers had confronted Spider-Man.

After the Avengers had beat him up.

It's all so obvious now, and he wants to _vomit_ , because he hurt a _homeless kid_ who had never done a thing to hurt him. A homeless kid who had asked to talk before he'd shot him in the back.

A homeless kid who was sleeping in his tower.

_Spider-Man's asleep in my tower._

"Oh, _God_ ," he whispers, staring with wide eyes at the dark wood of his table. "Oh, _God_."

Pepper chokes out a teary laugh and leans over the arm of the couch, pressing her forehead against his. Salty water drips against his cheeks. Tony can't tell who's crying, whether it's him or not, and honestly? He doesn't care that much.

"It's gonna be okay, Tony," she says. "I promise, we're going to figure this out."

Figure it out? There's nothing to _figure out_. He'd beaten up a _literal child_ , one who was probably terrified and traumatized and had all manner of problems. A child who had been living on the streets, taking care of himself, working a job far earlier than he should've been.

A child who had already lost more than Tony in his fifteen short years of life.

"I have to go see him," Tony says abruptly, standing up and shaking Pepper off in a single movement. "I have to see him and make sure we're right before anyone jumps to any conclusions."

Steve, Bucky, and Sam stand with him, identical looks of horror and concern on their faces.

"Tony," Steve says. He holds his hands out, palms up, like he wants to play ring-around-the-posy or some other childish game, but Tony knows that he's ready to pull him back if he decides to pull one of his patented Violent Outbursts. "We have enough proof to move from the 'conclusion' stage to the 'action' stage."

"And you shouldn't bother the kid right now."

Bucky's words are diplomatic, but the way his metal arm whirs and clinches in on itself gives another message entirely.

"He's asleep, and he's gotta be feeling pretty shitty. Leave him alone and think this through."

"He's scared of us." Steve brushes his hair out of his face with a deep sigh. "He's scared of us, and the best decision for him and us is to confront this in the most mature way possible."

"That might involve waiting for a little while."

Tony shakes his head curtly and turns to face Sam, standing beside Natasha and Clint.

"I made a mistake. This is my fault, and I'm going to fix it now. Before it gets any worse."

Clint opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it. His face has taken on a distinctly gray color, tinged with green around his ears, and he looks like he's about to faint.

"This isn't your fault," Pepper says. "There is _no scenario_ in which this is _remotely_ your fault."

Rhodey nods. "If anything, it's Fury's. He's the one who told us to get the kid."

"And there's still the issue of Peter having killed Flint Marko."

"We can't legally let him go."

Steve winces. "Tony, the blame is on all of us. I gave him a concussion."

_Oh, that's right._

_Tony hadn't been the only one to hurt him. It isn't all on him, it isn't all on him, it isn't all on him._

_But it was still his responsibility._

"I shot him in the arm," Clint says quietly.

"I was ready to shoot him."

"I kicked him into Cap's shield."

"I wasn't paying enough attention."

"I knew something was wrong."

One by one, the Avengers add their own grievances to the pile. They look guilty, but they also look relieved- they're getting it off their chests in an impromptu group-therapy session, and it feels good.

Tony can feel the weight lifting from his shoulders. It's like the air around him is thinning and rising, pulling him up in a balloon of _it's okay, it's okay, it's okay_.

"So we think about it," he mutters. "We decide what the best course of action is. And we tell Peter that we know."

Silence.

Something shatters in the doorway behind Steve and Bucky, and suddenly, the guilt drops right back into Tony's mind, because there's only _one person_ in the tower other than the team and the medical staff, and the medical staff are confined to the _goddamn medical level_ , and that means that it's _him, it's him, it's him-_

He turns around slowly, eyes wide, and watches as the two supersoldiers part and the one person who wasn't supposed to hear him comes into view.

Peter Parker stares right back. His eyes are teary. He's biting his lip. He looks like a _child_.

The one thing he _doesn't_ look like is Spider-Man. 

Of course, Tony knows that _that's_ a lie.

**_______________**

He steps into the room right when they say it, and everything in his body breaks.

He _knew_ he shouldn't have gone downstairs. There had been clear regulations set in place- even though they hadn't been stated out loud, it was obvious that he wasn't supposed to leave the hospital room without an adult or walk around. It was a multi-billiondollar tower, after all, and nobody wants a scrappy teenager walking around their multi-billion dollar tower without supervision. It wasn't like he had done anything to earn Tony's trust.

It wasn't like he had done _anything_.

But then he had woken up under a set of fluffy sheets, tucked in up to his neck with one arm stuck out, completely alone. No Tony there to hold him (which, no matter how embarrassing, had been nice).

Peter hadn't gone down right away. He'd waited for someone to come up and check on him, see if he was going to get sick or if he needed anything. Tony, maybe. Or one of the nice nurses who had put his IV in and made sure he was in a stable condition.

Nobody came.

Thirty minutes had ticked by, then an hour, and Peter was unable to ignore the sharp pain in his stomach. He'd thrown everything up earlier and hadn't eaten for _days_ before, and even though he hated to ask Tony for anything else... well, it _hurt_. And he was ready not to be in pain.

So he'd looked around for an excuse, found it in the form of an abandoned coffee cup with the Stark Industries logo on one side, and hopped out of bed. The IV stand had proven to be a problem.

He'd carefully removed the needle from his elbow and continued on his way, pressing a tissue over the puncture wound, and that had been that.

It hadn't been easy to get down the stairs to wherever Tony was. Peter had only been in two or three parts of the tower- the kitchen, the bathroom, and the hallways- and he hadn't known which floors any of those were on, so he had done the easiest thing he could think of.

And possibly the dumbest.

Peter hadn't thought about the consequences of climbing down five flights of stairs while malnourished, dehydrated, and severely injured. By the time he had reached the floor with the most voices echoing under the door, he was practically _shaking_ with exhaustion. Thankfully, the door had been unlocked, and he had been able to slip into another ultra-modern hallway with the coffee cup in his hand.

And that brings him to an open doorway, where he catches the tail end of what sounds like a very heated conversation ("... And we tell Peter that we know."), stops breathing, and drops the coffee cup.

_He knows._

_He knows._

_He knows._

Everyone in the room- a very sizeable group that also happens to be _extremely_ familiar, both from the posters in Peter's old bedroom and the other side of their various weapons- turns to stare at him. Tony's at the front of the ensemble, gaping at Peter like a dying fish.

And behind him... Earth's mightiest defenders.

Natasha Romanoff.

Bruce Banner.

James Rhodes.

Bucky Barnes.

Steve Rogers.

Sam Wilson.

Pepper Potts.

Clint Barton.

_Oh, God._

"Kid."

That one word, loaded with disappointment and fear and anger and sadness and _everything Peter never wanted to hear in Tony's voice_ is what breaks him. He doesn't really know how it happens, what gets him from point A to point B, because the next thing he knows, he's kneeling in a puddle of cold coffee with his knees digging into glass shards and his hands gripping the doorframe, unable to breathe or speak or do _anything_ to save himself.

They're going to kill him.

They know about Marko.

They know about Spider-Man.

They know about where Peter's been for the last year, and about what he does, and _who he is_.

They know _everything_.

But they don't move.

They just... stare. The Avengers, the fearless heroes who _protect_ New York, who _protect_ the people, who were supposed to _protect_ him, stare at him like he's an exhibit in the zoo.

Tony's the first to move. He's across the room and kneeling in front of Peter in the blink of an eye, chocolate eyes filled with worry and something unfamiliar. Peter watches him like he's stuck in a cloud- everything is fuzzy and far away, and the words barked from Avenger to Avenger blur together so that he can't hear them clearly. He doesn't feel the glass or the liquid. He doesn't feel the fear.

He feels a pair of hands on the sides of his ribcage. A pair of hands that lift him up and, without effort, sweep him off of his feet and onto the couch. Someone spreads a blanket over his shoulders. Takes off his socks. Rolls his sweatpants up to his knees. Pulls out a particularly large shard of glass- the one with the 'S'- out of his skin.

Peter feels _that_ , too.

He gasps and pulls away, suddenly wrenched back to a reality that he doesn't understand. Tony- the owner of the aforementioned hands- grips him tightly and pushes him into the couch cushions, pinning him by his shoulders so that he can't move. Peter struggles, but it's a downhill battle. He's too weak to do any damage on his own.

"Hey, Peter, it's okay," Tony soothes, pushing down harder as he wriggles. "We just want to help you, I swear. Bruce and Rhodey're going to take the glass out of your knees. That's all."

" _No!_ " Peter sobs, scrabbling at his forearms with those _despicable_ skinny fingers of his. " _No, no, please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"_

Tony freezes. Something in his eyes hardens, and suddenly, he isn't the Tony Stark who held Peter while he cried. He's the Tony Stark who beat him within an inch of his life on a rooftop.

_"You really thought we wouldn't find out?"_

Peter flinches, curling in on himself like a dying animal. He tucks his chin to his chest and releases the arms that hold him down, limp against soft cushions that grate against his skin like sandpaper. His entire body sags.

He's almost completely devoid of life, and he doesn't know if he cares.

 _"Please_ ," he says again, voice muffled by tears. " _Please, Mister Stark, I'm sorry. Please don't send me away."_

Everything goes silent. Tony freezes, arms stiff, and stares down at Peter like he's never seen him before. His bottom lip drops, then closes, then drops again. He looks like he can't breathe.

"Kid... why would I send you away?"

Peter's brain whites out. He stares up at Tony's face, chocolate eyes on chocolate eyes, and- to his own embarrassment- starts to cry.

"I- I thought th-that was wh-wh-why you were t-t-t-trying to catch m-me," he says, voice choked with sobs. "I-I killed M-M-Marko."

His mouth forms a silent 'o'. Tony nods and combs a hand through his hair, biting his lip nervously. "That was before we knew who you were, Peter. We never would've done what we did if we'd known that you were..."

"A kid," Steve finishes, clearly abashed.

"It was a mistake to hurt you," Tony says. "None of this is your fault, Peter. We're _so_ sorry."

"N-no, I messed up, _I m-messed up, I messed up."_

A broken mantra repeats itself over and over again in Peter's head and spills out of his lips and into still, quiet, terrified air. James Barnes and Sam Wilson- he recognizes them from the night in the alley- usher the other Avengers out of the room, closing the door behind them. The former grabs a first aid kit. The latter wets a towel from the kitchen and sits down beside Peter's feet.

Neither of them tells Tony to leave.

"It's okay," he says gently. "We don't blame you, alright? We're not mad."

"B-but I _k-k-killed_ him," Peter wails. " _I k-killed him_ and I _killed K-Kari_ and _May_ and _B-B-Ben_ and I messed up Ellie's _relationship and I messed it all up!"_

"Shh, shh, shh." Tony relinquishes his grip on his shoulders and moves so he's sitting next to Peter's head. He strokes a hand over his hair, just like he had the night before, and starts to hum _hush little baby_ for the third time in two days (something he had never expected to worry about in his life).

And, miraculously, it works.

Peter can feel something in his chest settling. The bars of music wash into his mind in a wave of calm, and all of a sudden, he's can _breathe._

Tony smiles down at him. "There we go, kiddo. Feels better, right?"

"Mhm," Peter hums, tucking his face into the man's side.

"It's all that oxygen going to your brain. Breathing does wonders for health."

"Mhm."

Out of his line of vision, Tony mouths something to Sam and Barnes. 

"You remember Bucky and Sam, right?" He asks. "They helped me out when I was taking care of you a few nights ago."

Peter nods. 

"They're going to help me get the glass out of your knees now, okay? It's going to hurt a bit, but they're really good at what they do and it'll be over soon." A pause. He shifts on the couch, and Peter moves right along with him. A mixture of blood and coffee run down his shins. "Is that okay?"

" 'S okay."

Wordlessly, the two men- _Falcon_ and _Winter Solder_ \- set to work, pulling shards of ceramic from his skin with tweezers and careful movements. Prickles of discomfort shoot up his legs, but he doesn't really care. He's too far into the ecstasy of feeling safe again to care.

They towel off his knees and calves, staining their towels with brown and red, but they don't seem to care. Peter lies there and lets them work without complaint.

He doesn't have enough in him to complain anymore.

"You're going to be okay," Tony whispers. "You're going to be okay."

Peter's starting to think that he's right.


	11. You Are Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resolution of the story isn't always easy, but Peter figures that everything's going to be okay. He's got Tony, after all. Right?
> 
> Warnings: fluffedy fluff fluff fluff, mentions of the various deaths that I've tortured Peter with over the duration of this fic, an author who has no concept of legal matters. (The last line of this chapter is purely platonic, just so you know.)
> 
> I love ya'll. I love you so much I can't even put it into words. You're all beautiful human beings and the amount of support I've gotten for this story is a s t o u n d i n g. Much love.
> 
> The next chapter will be a 2-3k word epilogue, because why not? :)
> 
> My tumblr: [silver-bubbles](https://silver-bubbles.tumblr.com/)

The Avengers only come back into the room until Tony, Sam, and James have checked to make sure Peter's all right with having so many people around him. And that he's not going to have a panic attack the minute they walk in. 

He appreciates it more than they'll ever know. The fact that they would even bother to check with him before bringing their own teammates back into a space that they _literally_ own is staggering, especially for someone who hasn't had much in the way of help for the last year of his life. 

So, of course, he nods tiredly from his spot on the couch (wedged between Tony and a mountain of pillows with both legs propped up on the table in all their bandaged glory). Who would he be to say no? Selfish and spoiled, that's who.

But maybe that's just the guilt talking.

They come back in one by one, entrances spaced out by a minute or so, cautiously making their way over to the sitting area and retaking their spots. None of them look him in the eye.

Peter can't tell whether it's because they feel bad or they just don't like him. He finds that, deep down, he doesn't really care that much.

The first is Clint Barton. He keeps his eyes glued to the floor and won't even look up when he sits down in the seat farthest from Peter, planting his feet firmly on the ground and placing his head in his hands. Then comes Natasha, bolder and less nervous than him. She stares down the gray wall behind the television like it owes her money and sits on the other side of the pillow mountain. Then Steve, studying his hands dutifully as he plops down next to Bucky. Pepper and Bruce, two of three people who haven't done anything to scare Peter, sits on the rug. Rhodes follows them. 

He feels a bit bad about that, but Tony has a hand on his shoulder and isn't likely to let him move.

They sit there in silence for a few minutes, staring at their chosen objects. Peter picks at the white bandages on his knees absently. Tony taps out a soothing beat against his shoulder- a steady _one, two, three, one, two, three-_ that keeps him inside his head and away from the dark pit in the back of his head.

Rhodes coughs.

Bruce clears his throat.

Natasha sniffs.

"So I'm going to go ahead and address the elephant in the room," Tony says, shooting a heavy glance at Pepper. "This is Peter Parker."

Peter flushes red, raises a hand in greeting, and ducks his head. He doesn't want to see this.

"Peter, you already know the Avengers. This is Pepper, my..."

"Girlfriend," Pepper supplies. "And CEO of Stark Industries. It's nice to meet you, Peter."

"Nice to meet you, too," Peter says softly. 

Pepper looks like she wants to hold out her hand for him to shake, but she holds back and wraps it into a fist. That's a _little_ bit insulting- after all, he's strong enough to shake someone's _hand_ \- but he doesn't pursue it, opting instead to look to Tony for guidance. He's clearly leading the conversation; not even Steve's arguing with him on that, so Peter knows that he shouldn't, either.

"We all know about Spider-Man, Peter."

It's blunt, it's harsh, and somehow, it's exactly what Peter was expecting. Nevertheless, he flinches and bites his lip so hard it hurts. There's a suspicious stinging feeling in his eyes.

 _He's not going to cry_.

"Oh," he says, worrying the hem of his borrowed t-shirt.

"But we're not mad!" Tony says quickly, eyes wide, free hand raised skyward. "You've got nothing to worry about here."

"We want to help you, Peter."

Natasha's voice is deeper than he had remembered. Huskier, even. Then again, the last time he'd heard her had been during an intense fight that he hadn't walked out of unharmed, so her voice hadn't been the first thing on his mind.

Peter nods in her direction, gesturing for her to continue.

"We want to know your side of the story. If we understand what really happened, we'll have a better chance of fighting to keep you free and safe."

Sam cuts in next. "Free and safe is the best thing we can offer right now, but if you're willing to work with us, we'd like to do more once this is all over."

"If you could tell us what you saw and what you did, that would be _really_ helpful."

"And we _want_ to help you. If there's only one thing you take away from this, I want it to be that you have people behind you."

"Even if we made mistakes before," Tony finishes warmly. "I can't say this enough, but we're _so_ sorry for what we did."

Someone in the back clears their throat. Peter leans around his pillow pile to stare at Clint, who looks no better than he had when he'd first walked in. In fact, he's almost _worse._

"Barton?" Natasha asks, surprised. "You want to add something?"

He's quiet for a minute, eyes fixed on his shoes, and when he looks up, Peter's taken aback by the tears on his face. His breath catches in his throat like someone's strangling him.

This is _awful_.

"A-are you okay?" He asks shakily, peering around Tony to get a better look. 

Clint laughs, a single harsh bark, and clenches his jaw.

"If anyone asks that, it should be me." A single jerk of the head. "Kid, I shot you in the arm. _I shot you in the arm_."

"I know."

_Probably not the best way to handle that, but okay. Run with it._

"And you're just going to let it go? Just like that?"

Peter shrugs.

"I don't see why not. I mean... no offense, Mister Barton, Sir, but I've got bigger things to worry about than you shooting me in the arm. I got the arrow out and they fixed me up."

Clint opens his eyes and stares up at Peter. He rubs a hand over his forehead.

"That doesn't change the fact that I shot a child."

"I know that, too. You don't have to feel bad about it, though," he mutters. "I mean, I fought back when you tried to bring me in. I'm pretty sure you're allowed to react... _violently._ To that sort of situation. Yeah."

Tony, sitting silently beside Peter up until that point, stands abruptly and wheels on him with all the force of a charging bull. His eyes are burning- he's angry, that's clear to see. Peter can feel his eyes widen with fear and surprise.

Even though he knows he's safe, it's going to take a while for him to feel fully _okay_ again.

"You don't get to do that," he snaps, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You don't get to think that you're wrong, Peter, or that anything that happened to you was okay."

"Mister Stark, I-"

"Listen to me."

Peter closes his mouth sharply and nods. He knows the tone of voice that adults use when they aren't playing around.

Tony sighs heavily, shakes his head, and closes his eyes. Massaging his temples like he has a headache, he says, "Nothing that happened to you was okay. We didn't have any right to do what we did without talking to you."

The others nod, varying shades of guilt on their faces.

"We didn't know anything about you. Our team-" He looks around the room, making eye contact with everyone in the room except for Pepper and Rhodey, "-needs to remember that we aren't judge, jury, and executioner. Our decision is not the only one that matters."

Another series of nods.

Peter looks up at Tony, lets go of the hem of his shirt, and smiles for the first time in what feels like forever.

"Thank you, Mister Stark."

**_______________**

Tony knows that he doesn't deserve forgiveness. 

He knows that, no matter how much Peter tells him that it's okay, that he doesn't mind, he will _always_ feel guilty for what he did.

But hearing Peter thank him for apologizing makes him feel a hell of a lot better, that's for sure.

He sits back down and throws his arm around Peter again, pulling him into his side and rubbing a hand over his arm. Peter, instead of shying away from his touch, leans into it like a puppy, tucking his head into Tony's shoulder with a soft sigh.

Tony can feel his ribs through his shirt- that hasn't changed- but, somehow, he feels so much _healthier_ than he'd been the night before. Maybe it's the difference between being safe and comfortable or being cold and scared.

Either way, he's happy to see it.

Peter sits there with his head on Tony's shoulder for a few minutes, his breaths tickling his ear. Tony sends a warning glare to Natasha and Steve and slashes his hand over his throat before they have a chance to speak and mess this up for him. They both nod and lapse into silence, averting their eyes like this is some sort of sacred moment.

Maybe it is.

He waits until Peter seems like he's calm enough to deal with the kicker of the conversation, then pulls away as gently as he can and turns back to address his team. Rhodey's grinning like a madman. Pepper looks... proud? Yeah, that's pride. He rolls his eyes and flips Rhodey off. Gets a snort in response.

"Alright, Peter," he says, voice soft and quiet. "You tell us what happened, okay? Tell us what got you here."

Peter nods nervously and shifts around on the couch, then pulls one of the overstuffed pillows into his lap and absently starts braiding the tassel in one corner between skinny fingers.

"Wh-where do you want me to start?" He asks.

Natasha leans forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, and smiles encouragingly. "How about you tell us what happened to put you on the streets first. Just so we can understand your situation. You can stop if you feel like you need to, but I think it'll help us if we know more about you."

Peter looks to Tony, raising an eyebrow, and a warm feeling floods his chest. He nods, smiling, and whirls his hand around in the universal "continue" gesture.

The kid takes a deep breath, nods, and begins.

"I lived with my aunt until a year ago. May Parker. She was really nice, took care of me for almost nine years." A wistful expression curls over his face, full of longing and sadness. Nostalgia, really. "My uncle died about a year and a half ago."

Tony remembers this part from Peter's CPS file. There had been something about a Benjamin Parker- that would've been where he'd gotten his last name- being his guardian, but there hadn't been a date. May Parker must've been his wife.

"I'm sorry, Peter," Steve says, pursing his lips.

" 'S okay." Peter shrugs. "You couldn't have done anything."

From the angry undertone in his voice, Tony can tell that he doesn't think that's true.

"You wanna tell us how it happened, bud?" He asks. Pepper clears her throat and shakes her head, but Peter's already talking.

"Armed robbery. He was at a convenience store down the street and it felt like something was wrong, and May was already at home, so I tried to help him." Peter laughs harshly, eyes dark. "I shouldn't have done anything. When I came in, the guy turned his gun on me and looked like he was going to shoot, so Ben did what he had to do."

"He took the bullet for you," Natasha says quietly.

He winces. Sucks in a deep breath.

"Yeah. Bled out on cold linoleum."

 _God_ , it's worse than Tony had thought. So much worse. This is trauma on top of trauma on top of trauma, like some sort of trauma sandwich. The world just doesn't seem to want to give Peter a break.

 _It had better start now,_ he thinks, _or the world and I are going to have a problem._

"May wasn't the same after that," Peter says, eyes flickering down to the floor. "We lost half of our income and it wasn't enough to keep us in our apartment or me in school. I started working extra jobs. Picked up cash wherever I could. She..." He trails off. "She never found out. I never told her."

"That was a very responsible thing for you to do."

Tony looks at Steve and nods a silent 'thank you'. Steve nods right back, but he doesn't look like he thinks he should be thanked.

He looks like he had a few weeks after coming out of the ice, right when Tony had met him: confused, angry, and incredibly sad. It's a mixture of emotions that've become extremely common with everyone in the tower.

A mix of emotions that Tony doesn't particularly like.

"Yeah, well." Peter scoffs. "I should've done more."

"Peter-"

He cuts Natasha off with a severe glare before melting back into the couch. Tony can see tears pricking at his eyes. Gathering beneath their lids. Peter, of course, refuses to let them fall.

They're going to have a serious talk about the dangers of bottling up emotions.

"I should've noticed that something was wrong," he says, "but I was too wrapped up in my own problems to take care of her." A pause. He gathers himself up, rubbing his index and middle fingers together. "They say it was a heart attack."

And, all of a sudden, Tony's reminded by the ugly 'DECEASED' written next to every person in Peter's CPS file. Of Mary Fitzpatrick and Richard Parker. Of Benjamin Parker and May Parker.

Of May Parker.

May Parker.

_May Parker._

"Oh, _kid,_ " he breathes, horrified. Peter nods and turns his face into his sleeve.

"I walked home and found her in the middle of the kitchen. She'd been making spaghetti because she knew how much I liked it. I called nine-one-one and told them that she was- that she was hurt, and I packed up my stuff, and I just... left. Didn't stay for a funeral or anything."

Tony hesitates to speak again, because he _knows_ how important funerals are, especially for family members. Back when his parents had died, their funeral had been a symbol of letting go. Knowing that, no matter how awful he felt about their deaths, there was nothing he could do to fix anything.

For his mother, it had been a final good-bye.

For his father, it had been an apology.

And for Peter, a bright, loving kid who seemed to have had a healthy relationship with his aunt (up until the last few months, at least), to not get his good-bye... well, it had probably been devastating at the time.

Peter seems to understand what Tony's thinking. His eyes darken (the first sign that something's wrong).

"If you're thinking that it was an awful thing for me," he says, voice clipped and angry, "you should stop before your expectations get too high. I hadn't thought about her funeral until a few nights ago."

"That doesn't mean you've done anything wrong." Pepper moves from her seat to place a hand on his shoulder, tilting her head to one side and trying for a supportive smile. "You've been through a lot in the last year, and when your aunt passed away, you lost a lot of stability. You were just trying to survive, and sometimes that means you have to put off mourning until you can do it safely."

_Thank God for Pepper Potts._

Peter nods, and even though he still looks unsure, the wrinkles in his forehead are smoother and something in his eyes is noticeably brighter than it had been before. He looks... not like a child, exactly, but _eons_ younger. Happier.

 _Sometimes,_ Tony realizes as he pulls Pepper into a sort-of hug, _you have to tell people things that you need to hear yourself._

It's a good realization, really. Not a happy one, but a _good_ one.

"Thanks," Peter says."That's nice."

Pepper nods and rubs his shoulder gently, smiling that sunshine smile of hers. "I'm glad to hear that."

"If you don't mind me asking," Clint blurted, "where did you go after your... when you were on your own? Just wondering."

He purses his lips and shrugs. "I don't mind. I had this building in Queens for a little while, and that was nice, but it got condemned and I had to leave. So after that I just- I don't really know how to describe it. I slept wherever I could and Spider-Manned whenever I was awake, 'cause the suit was warm and it was kind of fun? Yeah. I mean, rooftops were good in the summer," he muses. "And sometimes there were shelters with spare beds, but I couldn't really stay there too often because of Child Protective Services. Alleys were fine if nobody else was there."

"You were sleeping in _alleys?"_ Tony asks, aghast. " _Peter!"_

Peter flushes red.

"Mister Stark, you _literally_ found me behind a dumpster," he deadpans. "I was trying to sleep and sort of got sick. Accidentally on purpose ate some snow. That was my favorite part."

Now it's Bruce's turn to be appalled. "You _ate snow?!_ "

"It was water and I was thirsty and delirious, sue me. I wasn't thinking about the consequences."

Tony winces at the flat tone of Peter's voice and the blatant _uncaring_ he speaks with. He's become completely desensitized to the gravity of his situation, and it's something that he _hates_ to see in somebody so young. So full of life.

Then again, Peter isn't exactly _full of life_ anymore.

"Go ahead and continue," Natasha says, clearly working to keep the conversation on track. "We're listening."

Peter nods in her direction, pulling apart his braided tassels with one hand and starting back up again. He taps his foot against one of Tony's carpet- an expensive Persian number that, now, seems so extravagant and over-the-top that he wants to vomit. The kid has a lot of nervous tics.

One more thing to work on.

"So I stayed around in Queens. Kept the job that I'd been working before May died, in this bakery-cafe thing downtown that a bunch of people liked to go to. The bosses- this great couple- let me stay after a few times if it was raining really hard or cold or anything." He smiles fondly. "They really helped me out a few times."

"They sound nice," Bucky says carefully.

Peter's gaze darkens.

"Yeah, they were good. It was pretty sweet."

Tony looks down to the carpet. He knows about what happened with Peter's bosses, about Kari and Ellie and the money he'd left behind. But he still feels like he's missing a part of the puzzle.

So, after waiting for a few moments to give Peter a minute to collect himself, he decides to push a little.

"Spider-Man came into the picture... when?"

"A year ago." He combs a hand through his curls. "Made the suit myself with a bunch of stuff from a thrift shop, broke into my old school to make my webshooters- that's what I use to swing around. I got into a fight with this guy, sent him to jail, and decided to keep going."

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"So it sounds like you had everything pretty well put together, especially for someone in your situation." Judging from her tone of voice, she doesn't know if she believes herself. "What changed? I need to know about Marko. Where did he come into all of this?"

Marko is clearly a touchy subject. Peter shrinks back into the couch, all hints of bravado gone from his small figure, and winces so imperceptibly that Tony knows he wouldn't have noticed it if he wasn't paying more attention. The nervous braiding takes on a new speed, Peter's fingers flying over the strings so quickly that he can barely see them moving. His face pales a few shades, leaving a smattering of pale freckles over his cheeks that make him look like he's going to vomit.

"Marko was a criminal," he bites out, voice harsh and rough with choked-back tears. "He deserved what he got. I don't regret it."

The Avengers exchange apprehensive looks across the table. Tony flinches. This is a totally different Peter- a darker one who doesn't seem to care what the consequences of his actions are, even though he's facing lifelong imprisonment for them.

This Peter is going to make things much harder on him.

"You don't regret it?" Bucky asks nervously, eyeing the kid like he's gone from being a puppy to a legitimate threat in the last minute or so. "You're going to need to elaborate on that."

Peter shrugs. "What is there to elaborate on? It's simple: I don't regret killing him in that alley, and I would do it again in a heartbeat."

" _Peter_ ," Tony warns. "You need to think _very seriously_ about what you say in here."

Wild curls turn to face him, accompanied by burning eyes and a hard-set mouth. Peter looks angrier than Tony's ever seen him, and to be honest? It's a _terrifying_ expression to see on a teenager.

"Mister Stark, this is a situation that you don't understand," he hisses. "And I won't sit here and have you judge me for what I did if you don't know what happened."

Tony sighs, exasperated, and rolls his eyes. "I'm trying to _ask_ you what happened, kid. What you did, whether or not _you_ think it was warranted, was murder. I know this might have something to do with your old boss-"

" _My old boss?!_ "

The cold laugh that escapes Peter's throat fills the room and sends a chill down Tony's spine. It's a ruthless sound, full of pain and anger and something that he can't pinpoint but recognizes too well to dismiss. 

It's much too old a sound to be coming from a fifteen-year-old.

Peter casts the pillow aside, stands to his full height, and continues.

"This has _nothing_ to do with my _old boss_ , Mister _Stark_ ," he scoffs. "I didn't even know it was _her body on the ground_ until I went to work yesterday and found Ellie in her apartment."

Steve cringes and closes his eyes, clenching his hands in his lap like he has to physically hold himself back.

"I didn't know _whose face he'd blown off._ I didn't _see her_. I killed him because of _Ben_."

Oh.

There's the kicker.

Peter's face is reddening now, a crimson flush washing over his cheeks and nose. He steps over to the table, then back to the couch, like he can't decide where to stand.

"I killed him _because he ruined my life_. I killed him _because he_ _made May a widow_. I killed him _because he's the reason I dropped out of school at fourteen and got a job and got booted out of my house_."

Tony joins Steve, closing his eyes and biting his lip. He knows what Peter's going to say next. He's done his research, read the CPS file, talked to the kid and paid attention to him because he had nowhere else to go.

"I killed _Flint Marko_ because he _tried to kill me and ended up killing Ben_ ," Peter spits. 

Silence.

The fight drains out of his body. He slumps back onto the couch, pale and weak, burying his face in his hands and letting out a choked sob. His shoulders tremble violently, practically vibrating against the pillows as he sobs a river. Quiet whimpers are the only thing to escape his barricade, muffled so that Tony can't tell if he's trying to speak or just _crying_.

He seems like he's tried not to cry for too long.

And Tony, surprisingly, feels like he understands what Peter's going through. After all, Bucky had killed his parents and made it seem like a car crash so that he had blamed his father for their deaths for over two decades. Steve had taken it one step further and tried to hide it from him, and when he had finally found out, he'd been _livid._

He had tried to kill Bucky in that bunker in Siberia, and if Steve hadn't been there, he knows he would've succeeded.

Peter hadn't had a Steve of his own to stop him, so he'd gone through with it. And now, he was suffering the consequences.

Tony takes a deep breath, composes himself, and reaches over to wrap an arm around Peter's shaking shoulders. Peter twitches, like he always does, before leaning into Tony's touch like the child that he is (just like he always does).

Pepper's crying.

Rhodey, Bruce, and Steve look like they want to vomit.

Natasha, Clint, and Bucky squish together in their seat, holding each other's shoulders like they always do, because they understand.

Sam bites his lip and blinks.

And Tony _understands._

He's got Peter, and he'll always be there for him. He already knows that there's _nothing he wouldn't do_ for this kid.

Because he deserves _so much more than what he's gotten._

"It's okay," Tony whispers, winding one of Peter's curls around his finger. "It's okay, Peter, we're not mad. We're never going to be mad at you."

Peter shudders and melts into his hold, hands falling into his lap to reveal a tearstained face and watery eyes. He's still crying, Tony can see that, but it's not as bad as it had been before and that's about as good as it's going to get.

"You're n-not mad?" Peter asks, disbelieving. "M-Mister Stark-"

"Nope," Tony says firmly, "I'm not mad. None of us are mad, and that's the last thing you have to worry about, okay? I'm _so proud of you_ for telling us, and I promise we're going to take care of you."

"They're not going to take you away," Pepper murmurs. "We won't let them. We'll explain it to Fury-"

"Already on it." Natasha pulls a phone out of her pocket, already dialing a number, and drags Clint out of the room by the arm. "We'll be back in a minute," she calls over her shoulder.

The door closes.

"See?" Tony says, brushing a finger over Peter's cheek and leaving his skin stained and shining. "Nat'll take care of him, and I'll take care of you."

Peter, still crying, buried deep within Tony's arms ( _where he should be_ ) doesn't say anything.

He just smiles, and that's a better answer than he could ever ask for.

After all, the kid has a _beautiful_ smile.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trauma isn't something that goes away quickly, Peter knows that.
> 
> Tony knows that.
> 
> Literally every Avenger knows that.
> 
> But they're going to be okay. They've got each other, after all.
> 
> (An epilogue in four parts)
> 
> Warnings: absolutely none because even I, angst queen supreme, cannot hurt Peter Parker any more than Marvel and Sony already have.

**i. The Court Case**

Fury agrees to set up a hearing and work with Peter to figure everything out. Natasha had done her job, and, as usual, she had done it well- there was never a question about whether or not he would hear the Avengers out or give Peter a chance with her involvement. According to her, he hadn't even bothered to argue- just confirmed a date and gathered information on whatever Peter's supposed to be doing.

She says that Fury's not exactly _on his side_ , but with the Avengers around, there's not any way he can lose.

Peter's not so sure about that. He's lived his entire life in uncertainty- first his parents, then his aunt and uncle, then Spider-Man and the rest of his life- so Pepper says it's natural that he'd be nervous. After all, his future hangs in the balance of this _one hearing._

He can't afford to screw it up.

And that's how he finds himself standing in front of a full-length mirror in his guest room in Stark Tower, adjusting the cuffs of his black suit and trying to figure out how to knot his tie properly. Tony had bought him the suit when he'd realized that Peter didn't have anything to wear a few days after the date had been released with the promise that the only repayment he'd take was Peter being home free.

Tony had been, by far, the most supportive person Peter had ever met (excepting May, of course). He'd been the one to hold Peter as he'd vomited up meal after meal and the one to congratulate him with a smoothie when he'd finally been able to keep one down. The one to tuck him in at night and hold him after nightmares and promise him that he'd never be alone again. The one to take care of him when he needed it most.

May would've liked him. Peter knows that.

There are butterflies in his stomach and thoughts racing through his mind, but somehow, they're comforting instead of nerve-wracking. Peter has the Avengers to protect him and help him and stand beside him. He has Tony.

He's not going to lose them this time.

"You okay in there?" Tony shouts from the other side of the door. He sounds nervous.

Peter almost laughs, because _Tony Stark_ sounding nervous is one of the last things he ever thought he'd hear.

"I'm fine!" He responds, crossing the room and pushing the door open. Tony's standing right in front of him, eyebrows raised. "Can you help me with this?"

He nods and reaches down, taking the ends of the tie in each hand before twisting them and knotting them into shapes that Peter knows he couldn't make for the life of him.

"When this is all over," Tony says, "I'll teach you how to tie a Windsor knot, okay? Make sure you know how to take care of this sort of stuff yourself."

"Sounds good." Peter smiles.

They stand in silence as Tony carefully manipulates the tie into whatever shape he wants it to be, then takes Peter by the shoulders and looks him up and down. Peter lets him do his little inspection without complaint.

He's learned that complaining to Tony never ends well.

"You look nice."

It's an awkward compliment, but a compliment nonetheless. Peter blushes and thanks him quietly, staring down at his shoes.

"You've filled out a bit," Tony observes. "Not as skinny."

"That's a good thing?" _Too nervous, idiot, don't make it seem like you need his approval. Come on._

A quiet laugh. "Yeah, it's a good thing, kiddo. You look... healthier, I guess."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Don't thank me." A gentle hand brushes over Peter's arm, reminiscent of the bad nights spent in his room, crying his eyes out at the mere mention of his aunt. Of good nights, of dinners spent in the Avengers' common space with pizza and Star Wars and blankets.

Exactly one week ago, he'd been on the streets.

_Look where he is now._

"Thank yourself," Tony says. "You couldn't be making the recovery you are now if you weren't trying."

The sentiment is enough to banish the butterflies from Peter's stomach. He smiles, straightening his now-neat tie and showing all his teeth.

 _This is a good thing_ , he decides. _It's a good thing to be able to accept help._

The voice in his head doesn't speak.

He doubts it ever will again.

Tony leads him down to the first floor, then to the street, where a long black limousine is waiting for him. The entirety of the team- from Clint in his annoyingly purple suit to Bucky in a dignified blue number and Natasha in a sleek dress the color of her eyes- sits inside, leaving two seats open for Tony and Peter like they've always been a part of the family.

_Part of the family._

It feels _really damn good_ to be part of a family again.

Peter sits between Natasha and Bruce. She reaches over and combs a hand through his neat hair, smiling fondly.

"You look good, little spider. Stark picked your suit well."

"Y-you look nice, too," Peter stammers. "Did you pick out your dress?"

"I did." Natasha purses red lips and turns to Clint, smoothing down his lapels. "And Clint picked his, as you can see."

"This is _style_ ," Clint snaps peevishly. "The _epitome_ of fashion, thank you very much."

Peter grins. "It's cool."

" _Don't encourage him_."

" _What?!_ It _does._ "

"Thank you." Clint turns his nose up theatrically and sniffs in Natasha's direction, shooting her a satisfied smile. "At least _someone_ in here knows a nice outfit when he sees one. _You_ , on the other hand..."

The rest of the ride is spent in a lighthearted fog, filled with banter between Natasha and Clint. Tony interjects his opinion wherever he wants to. Pepper smacks him a few times (gently, but she smacks him nonetheless). Bucky and Sam get into a catfight. Steve breaks it up and gets pushed into Bruce by a wayward metal arm. Bruce whacks Rhodey.

It's a beautiful thing, really.

The courthouse is in the middle of Queens, by request of Pepper. It's a red brick building with a big front door and a large sign that Peter doesn't bother to read. It's so familiar to the rest of Queens that he feels instantly at home.

That's probably why Pepper had bothered.

"Alright, squirt," Tony says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "This is going to be pretty unconventional and I don't think there's any way you can lose, but just know that if you do, we're fully prepared to bust the roof off of the place and get you out. You've got a lawyer. You've got people to speak out for you. You've got all the evidence we need to get you into the clear."

Peter nods. "I know, Mister Stark."

"We're here to help you."

"I know."

"You're going to be okay."

"I know."

Tony takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and tries for a smile.

"Go break some eggs, kid."

And he walks away.

The rest of the day is a blur. A pair of men come out to take him into the courthouse, lead him up to a podium, and tell him where to sit. The Avengers take the front row, Ellie and Delmar sit in the second. Nick Fury himself is in the third.

Peter sees so many faces he recognizes out in the crowd, and he knows he's not alone.

The judge comes in to start the trial, his tone strict and formal. Peter stays silent unless he's told to speak. He does everything they tell him to do without hesitation and, when the time comes, he tells his story.

There isn't a dry eye in the room.

A few people speak out against him, but they're quickly drowned out by protests from people Peter's saved and helped over the last year. Ellie comes up to the podium and, in her special way, tells the judge how Peter had given up all of his earnings because of what had happened with Kari. Delmar talks about Peter's regular visits. A young couple tells the story of how Spider-Man had saved them from a car wreck that they wouldn't have walked away from.

Tony gives the last testament, and- of course- he ends with a showstopper. A showstopper that makes Peter's chest fill with warmth that he can finally identify as love.

"Peter Parker is a hero. Anyone who thinks otherwise can come talk to me."

They have no choice but to acquit him after that.

So they do.

**ii. Papers**

Of course, the issue of Peter being a minor without a proper guardian still stands. His defense lawyer- a blind man named Matt Murdock- makes sure that Tony knows that it poses a threat to his wellbeing and freedom, because even after he's been legally pardoned, he can't be on his own unless he's been emancipated and there's no way anybody in their right mind will emancipate a fifteen-year-old hero with a bad history.

So Tony does what he has to do.

They propose it to him over breakfast in the Starks' private area of the building ('they' being Pepper and Tony). In the usual fashion of Tony Stark, there's no preemptive hint or anything- just an honest question that requires an honest answer. No build-up. No drama.

_"So Pepper and I were thinking of adopting you."_

Deadpan eyes, glazed expression, the whole she-bang.

It takes Peter about thirty seconds to understand, and when he does, he spits his scrambled eggs all over the tablecloth and knocks over his glass of orange juice with his elbow.

Tony curses, Pepper whacks him in the arm and gets up to grab a few paper towels, and Peter starts to cry.

It's obvious immediately that Tony doesn't know what to do. Sure, he's dealt with a crying Peter Parker _many_ times. On a daily basis, really. But none of those times were because of _him_.

He'll say it one more time: Thank _God_ for Pepper Potts.

She bursts into the room with a roll of paper towels in one hand and a steaming cup of something that looks like hot chocolate in one hand (how she made it that quickly is a mystery to him, but whatever) and immediately rushes over to Peter. Pepper presses the cup into his hands and scatters a handful of paper towels over the tablecloth before shooting Tony an angry glare.

 _Talk to him_ , she mouths, jerking her head in Peter's direction before going back to cleaning up the orange juice and eggs.

Tony, to his credit, gets up and steps around the table. Peter's still crying, but it's not his usual routine- this time, he hasn't bothered to hide it. He's just sitting there at the table with tears rolling down scrunched-up cheeks, clutching the coffee cup so hard his knuckles are white.

It looks like he's going to break the mug.

Tony does the first thing that comes to mind- he slips it out of Peter's hands and sets it firmly on an unsullied patch of the tablecloth. The kid doesn't bother to fight him- in fact, he looks like he couldn't fight if he wanted to. He's just... crying.

"Peter?" Tony pushes the nearest seat away from the table with his foot and sits down, not taking his hands off of Peter's shoulders for a second. At the sound of his voice, the tears come in another wave, this one stronger and even more painful.

"Peter, I'm sorry if I offended you," he says gently. "I don't know if it's because of your aunt and uncle or your parents, but you have to know that I know we could never replace them. I'm _so_ sorry if it came across that way."

Peter gasps for air, sucking it into his lungs like it's the hardest thing he's ever done. His face is the color of a fire hydrant- that is to say, painfully red- and, for a minute, Tony wonders if he needs to do CPR or something to get him breathing again.

Peter chokes out a few convoluted words, too woven together for Tony to understand him, and repeats himself three or four times before the meaning comes out clear.

"Oh my _God_ , Mister Stark, _yes_."

Pepper freezes.

Tony freezes.

And Peter keeps crying.

It's okay.

**iii. The Suit**

It takes Tony and Pepper a week to get the go-ahead from Nick to adopt Peter. The Avengers go their seperate ways.

It takes Nick another two weeks to authorize their request and get the adoption papers, and a month to check them over before sending them. By the time they come in the mail, Christmas and New Years have already passed.

It's Peter's second holiday season without May. He spends the entire time crying on the couch, and Tony and Pepper sit with him the entire time and wait patiently for him to calm down.

It takes a few hours, but when they finally succeed, Peter's able to take a few deep breaths so they can go along with their celebrations.

He doesn't get either of them anything. He doesn't have enough money for small gifts, and they agree that he doesn't have to. Still, Peter promises himself that next year, he'll get them the best presents he can find.

They, however, make sure to get him something.

From Pepper, there's a framed picture of May, Ben, and Peter from when he had been twelve and they'd taken him to Disney Land for his birthday. Peter starts crying _again_ , to his horror, but they're good tears. Happy tears. He doesn't know how she'd managed to get a hold of one of his pictures, but he's grateful for it.

Natasha, away on vacation with Clint and Bruce, sends him a pair of Santa Claus socks that look like they've seen better days. He loves them and puts them on the minute he unwraps them. Pepper takes a picture and sends it to Natasha with a laughing emoji.

And then it's Tony's turn.

Tony's gift is less personal, but it's just as heartfelt- a newly-manufactured Spider-Man suit. It's Peter's original color scheme (black and red) with a set of blue accents around the chest and web designs over almost every surface and a spider insignia in the center. He wraps it in a small box, chalks it up to be a new set of books, and laughs his ass off when Peter opens it and screams.

He thanks them so many times that he can't count and cries a few more times before they laugh, give him a hug, and go to work on lunch.

Peter takes the suit out for a spin the next week, when he's been cleared for action, and he doesn't regret it.

They sign the papers the minute they come in the mail, gathered around the kitchen table during a visit with the Avengers. The entire team applauds when Peter signs his signature below Pepper and Tony's. Natasha congratulates them. Steve and Bucky tell him that he's welcome to work out with them whenever he wants. Sam takes him out for a spin in his wingsuit. Clint shoves an entire bag of lime-flavored chips into his mouth and swallows without chewing. The rest of the night is spent teasing him when he chokes and Bruce has to give him the Heimlich.

They're a family, and Peter loves them more than he can fathom.

**iv. Midtown**

It takes a while for Pepper, Tony, and Peter to decide where to go from there. After all, he's been through a serious load of PTSD and uncertainty over the last year, and they don't know if it's a good idea to push him back into society so quickly. Tony tells him that he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to. Pepper tells him that they have to make the right decisions for his future.

Peter tells them that he wants to go back to school.

There's a weeklong debate over whether or not they should send him to Midtown or a different school, considering his unique situation and different needs. Peter doesn't know if it's a good idea. He talks to Pepper about how he's worried that it would be awkward or he wouldn't be able to catch up after a year without schooling.

He knows the real reason: he's afraid.

He's afraid of going back to Midtown and learning that he's woefully behind.

He's afraid of Flash saying something about May or Ben or his absence.

He's afraid of losing Ned and MJ.

He's afraid of prying eyes and listening ears and people who know about Pepper and Tony.

He's _so afraid._

But, after a few days of careful deliberation, he makes his decision.

_He wants to go back to Midtown._

Pepper hugs him. Tony congratulates him.

Peter isn't afraid anymore.

They get his paperwork in order, update his guardian information, get a clean bill of health from Helen Cho and Bruce, and he's ready to go. Tony takes him to buy new clothes and school supplies (he picks out a slew of t-shirts with science puns and a few pairs of jeans), then works on getting him up-to-date on the first half of the year so he doesn't feel overwhelmed.

He goes back mid-February after Pepper negotiates with his principle, and then they're ready to go.

But he's not out of the woods yet, because the Avengers aren't just going to _let him go to school like a normal person_. No, everything has to be a group activity. So, in true Avengers fashion, they squish into the car on Peter's first day back and wave at him until he's inside the building.

Peter waves at them until they're out of sight.

The butterflies are back in full force, beating at the walls of his stomach and making him feel like he's going to vomit. He takes a deep breath and steels himself, standing there in the hallway before gathering every bit of nervousness in his body and chucking it out a metaphorical window.

Midtown hasn't changed much since he was last there, back in ninth grade. The bathrooms are in the same place. The rooms haven't changed position. That doesn't stop him from feeling like he's entered a completely different world.

He's turning the corner to the main hallway so he can drop his books off at his locker when he finds the first difference- a mural that covers the stairway hall, depicting faces of famous people in the STEM industry over time. Peter sees it right before he opens the locker door, and it takes his breath away.

Tony stares back at him, a cocky grin on his face, coffee-brown eyes meeting his.

A warm feeling chases the butterflies away.

_That's his guardian._

He smiles, picks his books for his first class, and walks away. This is the beginning of his new era.

This is the beginning of his new life.

First period is AP Chemistry, to his relief, and it's on the main floor so he doesn't have to do any extra walking. Peter hefts his books in one hand and knocks on the door to the lab, worrying his lip between his teeth. He doesn't know who's going to be in his first class- whether this is where he's going to reunite with Ned and MJ (or get yelled at by them; he doesn't really know). There's no putting it off, he knows that.

It doesn't make anything easier, though.

Mister Harrington opens the door, and the minute he sets eyes on Peter's face, he's grinning so hard that it looks like he's going to break his own teeth. 

"Peter!" He exclaims, pulling him into a hug before dragging him into the room and closing the door. "It's so great to see you again!"

Peter freezes. This wasn't how he was expecting things to go at all- he'd been hoping for an innocuous introduction- but it doesn't matter, because everyone is staring at him and Flash and Betty are there and _everyone can see him_ and-

Two familiar faces bring his mind to a screeching halt.

Ned and MJ are sitting at the front table and watching him with wide, teary eyes. There's another kid at their table- a dark-skinned boy with buzzed hair and the same expression on his face- and for a minute, Peter thinks he's been replaced.

Nah, they'd never do that.

Ned's out of his seat before Peter can say anything, barreling across the room in a blur of dark hair and tan skin before ramming into him with the speed of a train. Peter falls back and catches himself on the desk. There's an armful of crying kid clutching him close and cussing him out, and he doesn't know what to do. He's never gotten this sort of reaction before.

Peter takes a deep breath and pats Ned on the back, blinking back tears of his own.

"Hey," he says gently, wincing as Ned's tears strengthen. "Good to see you."

MJ follows more slowly. She's not crying, of course, but there's a downward curve in her lips that tells him more than tears ever could. She stops a few feet away from where Peter and Ned stand, lifts a hand, and glares at him.

"Loser."

"Michelle."

MJ nods, approval clear in her expression, before stepping aside to reveal the dark-skinned boy from their table.

Peter's eyes widen. He recognizes those facial features- a flat nose, large eyes, and high cheekbones- but it's been _so long_ since he's seen them and he doesn't know if he's right. He separates himself from Ned as gently as he can, takes a deep breath, and tilts his head to one side.

"Do I...?"

Miles Morales grins a toothy grin, nods, and tilts his head to match Peter's.

"So, do you still want to be a policeman?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is the last chapter? Um... *clears throat, taps mic*  
> This is kind of crazy. I've gotten an insane amount of support on this fic, and I couldn't be more grateful for any of you because you're all amazing and I want to reach through this screen and hug every last one of you. This wasn't the end I was imagining, but I'm really happy about it, so I hope you guys like it too!  
> That said, I've got a few fics planned for the future, so if any of you would like to receive updates or rant at me or whatever, check out my [tumblr](https://silver-bubbles.tumblr.com/) and maybe follow me or chat for a bit?  
> Love you, and thanks again for everything!


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